Perfection donned human skin,

and played

the violin.

People cheered

in a daze

But never figure what the song says.

A smile of a thousand stars.

Enthralled hearts kept in jars.

Her greatest fear long gone;

Who fears failure if they're never wrong?

Perfection donned human lungs

And spoke

in human tongues.

Issues solved

with her voice,

Though those who listened seldom had choice.

A smile of a thousand stars.

Enthralled hearts kept in jars.

Her greatest fear long gone;

Who fears failure if they're never wrong?

Perfection donned human head,

but with

kind thoughts instead.

And smart ones

filled her too.

How could someone be so wise and true?

A smile of a thousand stars.

Enthralled hearts kept in jars.

Her greatest fear long gone;

Who fears failure if they're never wrong?

Perfection donned human brain

and soon

felt disdain.

"How," she wailed,

"Can this be?

Without success, who could value me?"

A s̶m̶i̶l̶e̶ of a thousand stars.

Enthralled h̶e̶a̶r̶t̶s̶ kept in jars.

Her greatest fear l̶o̶n̶g̶ ̶g̶o̶n̶e̶;

Who fears failure if they're n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ wrong?

P̶e̶r̶f̶e̶c̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ donned human heart.

Slowly

rose to restart.

Smiled behind

tearstained eyes.

Prospect of perfection: naught but lies.

A smile of a misty sky,

with loved ones by her side.

She'd always fear failure.

But everyone makes mistakes, see?

So it's okay.

Think back to your childhood. Was there a show you favored, a book you read until the binds fell apart, a toy you could never sleep without?

Perhaps you still watch that show when you wake up from a nightmare at three in the morning. Or maybe that book still sits on your shelf, collecting dust, until you have a rough day and flip the pages open to return home. Perchance, you keep that toy in the attic and whenever you open the dusty old box it lies in, you smile halfway and run your fingers down it.

I've had Prose for years. As someone who loved to write since before I knew how to write (I scribbled lines on paper while I made up stories in my head) but didn't have many people interested in reading my creations, Prose was the perfect place for me.

Then my best friend abandoned me. (Which was my own fault. I wasn't exactly the nicest person.) Then came Covid, and I was isolated from all but four people. So I wrote every second of every day as a way to keep myself from going (more) insane.

And I wrote complete trash. Every time I stumble back to Prose and read my old work, I cringe and occasionally bury my head in a pillow to stifle a groan. Some of my more disturbing writings I've already deleted. (I wrote ignorant, arrogant and disgusting works because I felt if I exaggerated my circumstances, I would be worth more as a person. If you came across any of my work stemming from such a place, you have my sincerest apologies.)

However, several of my works do remain up, since deleting too much could have a negative impact on my progress as a writer. Embarrassment stems from growth, after all.

Still, in spite of everything, Prose is to me as that show or book or toy may be to you. An old friend. Something you value, but rarely think of anymore.

Even so, Prose can earn a smile from me when the thought graces my mind. There's so many wonderful people within the community that I haven't interacted with for months- perhaps even years. Additionally, sharing creations is beneficial to anyone's journey as a writer.

I'm just not ready for the commitment of saying I'm back.

Trust me, I don't think people were waiting with bated breath on my return; that's just not really normal with online acquaintances. In spite of this, I decided to make an official post regarding this status. Just to be polite.

So, (maybe) I'll see you around!

As the smoke billowed and ashes rose, I found myself choking. Only, the fires weren't the source.

My sobs were.

"They don't love you," he had whispered softly into my ear. "I do. Let me free you from their manipulations."

The fires I lit for the real manipulator consumed everything.

Value the truth,

until it contradicts your beliefs.

Encourage differences,

until they're different from you.

Celebrate achievements,

until you're bitter.

Make everyone valued,

unless they are few.

Keep moving forwards,

until you're a quitter.

A window fills the entire wall,

up to the library's ceiling.

The world outside is for all,

Will a glance provoke a feeling?

How could it, with the lack of light?

The window merely does reflect.

The word is damp. Dark as night.

At this hour, what did I expect?

But peering closer, I may see

A car or a long powerline;

Leafless branches of a tree;

Buildings and their rough, vague outlines.

The world is there for those who look,

Beautiful and strong and gleaming.

Can't be taken by a crook.

It's for loving, being, dreaming.

I was told that my

Unattainable goals that I pressure myself to reach;

Anxiousness in every social situation;

Many friends, and the eternal need to please each;

Easiness to heavy exasperation;

Irregular, harsh shifting of my mood;

Possible atelophobia;

Pressing fear of being too rude;

Stuttering; saying um, uh;

Lack of motivation;

Constant questionings;

Pure terror; and

scared feelings

was perfectly normal for someone of my age to feel. In order to feel better, I need to learn how to control my emotions. Very helpful advice!

Behind my eyes lays,

amidst the fleeting terror,

a light undisguised.

Day dreams conquer screams

as I find my truth in lies.

Life’s not what it seems.

How I wish to be

amongst fiction’s schemes and themes.

That’s my fantasy?

Life is but a bore.

Find, to change reality,

something to fight for.

As my world burned, tears dripped from my eyes and rolled down the curled lips that formed my smile.

Luminescent flames danced around me, which caused my skin to switch between glowing orange and being enveloped in strange shadows.

I took a deep breath of smoke, walked towards the center of the inferno, and sobbed as I lived unharmed.

Stop telling me I'm talented,

there's no need to lie,

because something that would make others proud

makes me want to cry.

I want to say I did my best,

but did I really?

Explaining this feeling makes me sound so

prideful and silly.

I always try to bite my tongue,

it is far too rude.

Those who did worse than me would feel self doubt

when mouth matches mood.

Silent anger, until I crack

like the plates I drop.

Unless I write, unless I save myself.

Then the pain will stop.