Stories we tell Ourselves

 


Crammed down in my soul are memories. Tried to forget that I had any enemies. It is hard to do when they are surrounding me. Who gave the right to anyone to control with conflict. I know the paranoid when I see them. Not one to thrive on sensationalism, brush it off like the thin dust that was stirred by galloping horses, manes flying in the air and pummeling rhythm.
Etched in my mind are scenes of such beauty, but beast gets ahold anyone can guess when it rolls. Roll with the punches is lost ideology.
Shame faced by the hypocrites who seek to shame whom they say I am by virtue of labels; Not by any identity. The strength that I have is outside of their reach.