At Your Own Risk

It's February... and that means it's MY month! ;) yeahhh my birthday is Saturday, the 7th. I'm not jumping for joy about it but it's good to know that I've made it this far. I've overcome a lot of life risking, life altering, life questioning, struggles in my short lifetime; but I'm here. Looking back at my childhood, I realize how fortunate I was and still am. Growing up without a care, a worry and not wanting/needing anything... yeah, my childhood was great, up until I was 11. My childhood was taken away in the night, which is why I don't sleep too well. I rather have bags under my eyes, then be in a bag... But everything happens for a reason. Life is much more then what it seems and even though you may loose something, rather someone(s), you gain so much from being able to pick yourself up. I've been shot down and have taken bullet wounds to the heart, they ask me how I'm still standing... I tell them it's the strength that is deeply instilled within me, that keeps me going. Or perhaps it's desire to find Love, that keeps me getting back up. You love, We all Love, at our own risk. I love whole-heartily, always have- probably always will. Its something about sharing MY world and all that I can give with another being that molds itself into something beyond Beauty. Yeah, I love(d) you entirely... You're beautiful and when perfection comes, than the imperfect disappears. And even though I see you in my dreams and you run in and out of my mind... I still feel you just the same, you live in my memory. It pains me to look at you now, yet I can't turn away... it's like when my J's are not laced and I know they aren't and I also know I don't want to fuck them up BUT I don't take the time to lace them. Perhaps I should, take or find the time... I'll figure it out, and come to a conclusion of a story not yet finished. Meanwhile, as I grow older, more beautiful, stronger and wiser I've come to find that my heart has never healed from the first heart-break. And the constant heart-aches that follow, only add to the pain. So the intensity only increases as my heart reaches peaks unknown yet so familiar to the last. My heart is holding on to old pain, making heart strains and maybe that's why I like the rain but hate to cry. Frustration builds, which causes me to create quilts of words, sentences, paragraphs which soon turn into pages and pages of words, unheard, unspoken. The barrel doesn't silent me, I silent Me. And Love is a gun, therefore I am never silent, hardly quiet but always listening. So shoot me, I've grown immune to these bullets. They cannot destroy me... they leave bruises, wounds, and scars. But when the time does come, I will self-destruct, I refuse to walk into the light by the hands of a man holding on to a machine that He, himself doesn't even understand.

You Love,

We Love,

At Our Own Risk.

So either shoot

or be shot.