Miming Isn't My Destiny (Although A Subconcious Talent)

When I look at me, I see a beautiful woman with the world within the reach of her hands. I see a woman who is destined for a life made for no one but her, cause no one else can walk the path created for her. Just her. I see a woman who wants to show the world every talent that God has given her before her first day on earth. But this woman has a hurdle she can't seem to jump. A hurdle that is made of her own bravery. It stares her in both eyes, it pushes her to jump, it is looking out for her, but this woman doesn't trust because she never could. She doesn't even trust herself. How can a woman who doesn't trust other even trust her own self? How can she see the window open to lead her from A to Z? She doesn't know the answer, or maybe she does. But her face has been plastered in white, black gloves, pants, and a hat match her all in one stride of taking her pride. Her voice exists, but dares to speak. So she goes left while everyone goes right. She stands for what's right in other ways that doesn't involve using her voice, the tone is always off, always trailing when she has to repeat herself. She doesn't enjoy repitition. She doesn't follow others who enjoy a rendition of a blended serenade. They say when you have lemons, make lemonade, but what sweet can come of a sour situation? She tastes nothing but the bitter cold of the ice pressing to her lips as the half empty glass is raised. It sweats in unision with her beating heart, her hand shaking to the rythm of nervousness, anxiety, and a search for a place to hide. She needs solitude so her way of standing isn't misconstrude as disrespect. She neglects her own happiness and sanity, driving her self to the destination of insanity. She struggles between heaven and hell, good and bad, she is halfway in the light and fighting to leave the darkness. She is made of one wing and half a pitchfork, a feather and a spark of flame. She's fighting for peace beyond noise. She is a slowly moving caterpillar elevated on pillars of grass. Patiently wating and trying for her chance a new and restored wings.

This poem is about: 
Me

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