impressionist…

impressionist

a lifetime
traveling the world
being someone else
someone
famous
singing
their songs
copying
their voice
never really being
seen
as
self
just
someone else
like
all those
who
never sing
their own songs
with
their own
voice
just
a lifetime
fulfilling
the expectations
and
dreams
of
others

a victim of self…

she had
so carefully
woven her crown
of thorns
from her beliefs
binding each row
with the twisted twine
of her sense
of worthlessness
wearing it
with olympian pride
year after year
turning water
into wine
that others would drink
while she hung thirsty
upon a cross
carved with her own hands
hands she marked
so her tormentors
would know where
to place the nails
and yet
she knew not
what she
had
done

doubting thomas….

reach out with your finger
and touch the doubt within you
behold the wounds of fear upon your hands
thrust your hand into the side of yesterday
and begin to understand your fear
as nothing more than
a death shroud
placed around your tomorrow
your self-doubts
nail you to the past
hold you to the cross of other’s expectation
you cannot reach your dreams
without rolling away the stone of fear
that holds you in  a sepulchre
of your own design