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The canvas

My body is a canvas, empty at first, waiting for my personal touches to grace it’s frame before I leave in due time. Your heart, it has layers like a tree trunk. Every time a piece chips off, you see deeper inside. Layers upon layers of who you’ve been crafted to be, the person you are destined to become. It’s all planned out for you, you can’t really choose your soul or your path. You can only make insignificant choices in the process. Some people like score boards to tally their victories and losses, others write things out in details. People use artwork, pictures of other things and people that mask hidden meaning to them, triggering emotion, thought feeling. The thing that God gave you to express yourself. The thing that makes you who you are. The way you feel when things happen, what you chose to do when faced with an opportunity to make a choice. Some people wander around feeling insignificant to the world, like they can’t make a dent or a difference. They feel that they have to end their lives. These are the people who haven’t found expression. They haven’t found themselves. They are the people struggling to be where they feel free doing what they love. This is the way it’s supposed to be. Others are dead inside. They read the bible like good Sumerians and know that suicide gets you a one way trip to hell. They live their entire lives waiting for a train, a bus, a cereal killer, a heart attack to finish them off. They are the people who don’t live life to the complete potential. Some people like to scratch the surface of their heart physically, not only do they like to look deep within themselves, they like to pry it open with a blade and watch the life flow inside of them, sometimes from the inside to the outside, and splattering to the floor. They like to explore themselves, the pain, the pleasure, the feelings that certain things cause. For every action, there is an equal reaction. The reaction isn’t necessarily opposite. If you give someone, they give back in their own way. Weather it be a smile, a wave, or a thank-you. Even if they are hard as a rock, if you look hard enough, you can tell it effected them. A bad thing causes a bad reaction. Not opposite--not at all . So here I am. Sometimes drifting between the happy people who express themselves. And the ones who want suicide. The trigger is the blade. I use it to feel the things it gives me. And I drift when people tell me it is not okay. Why is one thing favored over the other? Some people get millions of tattoos and piercing. They call it self expression and chalk it up to beauty. So when I tear my own flesh and change it into something that I was not born with, why is it so different? Its art work. It’s a score board to record all my wins and losses. It’s an intricate description of my life. The pain shows on some people’s faces, the things they’ve endured. Mine shows on my arms. You can tell the kind of people that went through a holocaust. You can tell the kind of people that had to fight in a war because of the way their face is shaped after holding it in a horrified expression for far too long. You can tell all the thing’s I’ve been through by the markings on my body. But if you look at my face, you can’t tell a lick of what’s going on. You see a bright smile and a warm greeting. Because I’ve found myself. My expression, my scoreboard, my way to get even. My way to record every little thing that happen. My trigger of emotion, and my way to scratch the surface and see the layers of my heart.

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Eyedea
wrecktangle
Kismet Witstatic
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