Along time ago I came to terms with myself, I said that I love and accepted myself and I did. I've forgotten that completely as I've grown old. I love me, I love everything that I am, I love my poetry and writing, and the way I love tea and everything Victorian and the way people think I'm weird and crazy. I love the way I day dream and fantasize and never wanted to grow up and talk to myself and the way I love to sleep all day and stay up all night and how I cuddle with my pillows and keep my room cold and wear sunglasses all the time. I f*cking love me and accept me. Because in the end all you have is you, you are always there constantly. I am me and I wouldn't have it any other way. I am the f*cking Moonbeam, that one exception. There are faerie tales and it is mine and I am a Seer and I am a bit psychotic and bipolar and depressed and I love it and accept it. I love who I am even if no one else does, because at night it's just me with my own cold thoughts. It's just me. They say you can't love until you love yourself, well I love myself. And even in loving myself my love failed.
Just two strong strong opposing forces that if even melted would be so spectacular.
I am falling. And breaking into tiny pieces. And sweeping them up and locking them back up where they belong.
· Tue Mar 26, 2013 @ 10:34am · 0 Comments