To determine self worth on a sliding scale strung so precariously
How melancholic is this!
Tendrils of doubt embedded superficially
On the surface of marbled skin.
The varying shades of gray-
Oh how marred it has become.
The intricate working of one's feeling shuttled from one extreme to the next.
A spurt of confidence,
Followed by the surge in confusion,
Then comes the agonal rhythm that set pace to the sense of longing.
The "I could have done better"
And the "why can't I be like them?",
Must one have to utilize such great effort to perish these thoughts?
To be controlled by the center that is no larger than two fists,
How scary it is to know that one cannot be in control of these thoughts?
Pressured by forces with a current that cannot be withstood,
It is no wonder many crumble
By the sheer power alone.
And yet, one must not forget just one thing:
That strength comes in numbers
As long as each does its part of the work.
To chisel off the right amount,
To slam down the unecessary,
That is how one's world can light up once more.
It may be a mild conversion, and that is okay.
Much more okay than living in a monochrome world,
Devoid of the different aspects of life which gives it some spice-
The laughter, the joyous moments,
The anguish, the hurt.
The anger, the experiences of betrayal,
The envy, and the times requiring one to be selfish.