Trace, Grace, and Face.

To the Past. You have molded him into a foreign object made of clay, and the hands that molded were fragile and inexperienced: I wish your mold was a bowl that could sustain the least bit of substance, but instead it's easily found to be useless. Not even aesthetically appealing. It just is. You serve no purpose, at least, not for me. The Past has found me virtuous and it has graced me into a irreplaceable sculpture made of crystal. Something bright and immaculate graces me and I feel radiant. I'm displayed behind red ropes and piercing eyes graze my skin, but don't penetrate. I walk further along this exhibition and I find photos hanging, as if from a noose. They are just photos after all..."Faded photographs, covered now with lines and creases...Memories of bits and pieces,Traces...." Meaning fading fast. Rekindle only the fire within myself. You are no longer a sounding board... You just sound really bored. You seek Romance, passion, desire, and euphoria. I just want someone that can say this to me: "The day you love someone else more than me, please leave." That sort of conviction will ease my wrath. That sort of promise soothes my spirit and seeps through the cracks of the bricks that have built this wall. My actions are no longer a reflection of my feelings. Only those with a good will, and a clean canvas, will draw me out: pretty pictures that show subliminal messages of my deep committed love and loyalty. Can You hear me? Can you see me? Can you feel me? No. You can't, and I'm beyond content with that realization.