Stop
the incessant- that carrying on you do
that thing - I do it too, don't get me wrong.
clawing and raking at your own sweet self
you don't ever need to feel like
you are not
anything
a magnolia leaf on the coldest day of spring when the sun hurls rainbows at the dew
as though you are not
some kind of ethereal being
made of the breath of
a Force so almighty the very aura of the cosmos quakes at the thought of its power
even as if you are not
a sharpened needle on a snowflake so unmatched in shape and thought and feeling, so lethally unique and brave yet equally as beautiful within yourself
you foolish exquisite rogue- stop.
you skulk in self scrutiny and worthlessness
as though you are not
a formidable army of cells and sinew,
gushing blood and a pounding engine of flesh
with your feet on the earth and your hair in the wind
sucking life into your relentless lungs
like you won't recognise
you survive on your own will and unrivalled instincts with that brain that can calculate sums and that mind that can craft an entire universe
carrying on about every mundane tragedy
as though you are not
of the same race that taught metal to fly and machine to speak however morbid, and vile- a race nonetheless,
one who's intellect has dragged itself from stone ages into phone ages
stop
if one man can live on for centuries immortalised in a tale of two suicidal lovers
and one woman can reserve a seat for an entire race on a single bus
and one girl can take a bullet in the face so all girls can pick up a pen
you can stop
feel your presence here
you will not let your chance to rule galaxies pass by because you could not
stop and realise that you,
aren't not
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