List

I don't really remember the circumstances that were upon me when I wrote this, but it seems as if I was in a convoluted state. It's interesting to read a piece of work that I know for fact that I created but have no account of when or why. It gives it a mysterious quality like the emotion is hidden behind smoke. Anyway, I do like this poem because it's different. I'm not quite sure if the list is good or a bad thing and I truly don't think that's the point. If i'm reading myself correctly, I believe that the list is anything that we create to protect our self righteousness. In that sense it's bad but everyone needs something of that nature.

The negativity slowly creeped itself into her mind.
The illuminatino of the pain bore straight outward,
and her eyes were two way mirrors.
No one could see in.
So taking to the shadows, she compiled a list.
A list of negative things that made her stronger.
Because as it was, the melacholia was insie her,
and a part of her, so she used it.
As the list grew, her own pains dwindled.
The empty eyes became mirrors,
reflectors, indicating the beauty in others.
The list became decrepit
not only because of weariness
but because of human stained fingers,
dirtying it with their wicked obscenities.
As the list grew older, her life seemed to become longer.
She eradicated what, for so long, had been the objects of affection.
The negativity in the majority jumped at the list.
It could fester there and plague others.
She stamped it out in the gutter were it belonged,
believeing, without a doubt, misery was gone.