"Lizards are awful, one once actually bit a puppy.."

My Grandmother is praticing to be Steve Irwin.

She caught a lizard underneath a jar in her kitchen last week. It's still there. Before she trapped it she had sprayed it with laundry starch. She described it as "a crafty little bugger." My Grandmother is a strong woman in my opinion.
And I always love it when the strong woman come together and I get to be around them. It makes me feel safe enough to show my own, my real strengths.

Because I always like to pretend that I'm confident and above all comments made about me.
I pretend that I can handle everyone else's problems as well as my own.
I like others to believe that I am always, eternally happy in a disney-esque manner.
Lies are so beautiful, no?

But I have so much real strength! I have things that I actually succeed in! Things that I only feel able to flaunt while I'm within the realm of strong women.

I don't particularly admire myself, because I am intuitive enough to see the flaws. I'm also intelligent enough to know that what most of my thoughts and ideas is utter bull.
I might not be able to carry the world upon my shoulders, but I can empathize. I will cry with you even if I have never met you. I will keep you on my mind and in my heart, though you might be a perfect stranger. Because I wish happiness to people.
And I am not able to be a continual bowl of sunshine-soup. But, though I don't always feel or show it, I am capable of true, free joy of the highest degree.
Those are my strengths.
And I want the the universe to incorporate them into it's dance, and not make me change my steps in order to fit into it's routine.

I've seen worse damage done by My Little Pony wars.

There were words floating across the room, and I am more then certain that the speaker would have wished to be doing anything else then uttering them aloud. They were words of confession, and vulnerability. I heard in them an imploring for the hearer to be worthy of such a trust, to stand by them no matter what. A shy fear echoed in the undertones, and you could tell this was a world shaking monologue. But, for a five year old, many things are world shaking.

I'm not so brave as that little girl. Terror of my explanations being inadaquet, of my words being misunderstood keeps me from offering any. Same reason I'm ashamed of poetry I've written, as if I'm far too untilligent to write anything comprehensible. Same reason I'm too self concious to dance, clumsy and awkward. It would be so rude of me to place another in a situation where they would have to respond to my ungraceful attempts at expression!

In the end I held my little girl in my lap, her head burried in my shoulder, as she finished explaining herself to her friend. And I'm jealous of the simple aid it offered her. I wish I could burrow my head in the jacket of a friend, comforted in the trust of loyalty through it all, while I expose my reasons, my desires, my beliefs, my life.

"She told me she won't be my friend anymore..."
"But darling, you can sit with me."

My sky comes with Crayola-colored options.

"We can, we will, change the world with love."
It's all you need...Right? A ballad that could wake up the revolutions and bring it all back home.
But when Love gets bored and finds a lesser, yet more entertaining cause, and eternity and all it holds is put back on the shelf. Anger is more then apathy, and it sticks around longer then this love.

Anger at the hospitals, doctors, needles, pills and blood that can't save broken hearts. They fix the physical, sometimes the mental, but leave the souls for dead.

The false alarms and falser hopes that lead the Hurting to believe in something, but to be ultimately found with no room in their lungs for anything other then keeping their breath.

At those who see the Hoodlums instead of seeing the History Makers and the Generation Shakers. Those who would stand on the edge of the Earth and sing, but who are tied to the ground with "Not going to happen"s.

Angry at how the sky is blue when their day is gray

For the girl who cries in the bathroom because as soon as she walks out the door her performance takes up again. All the world's a stage, but the universe is her cinema screen. She knows she's been given the responsibility to play her Happy well. A gift given to her by all of those who are dominated more by fear then fury.

Angry at these words, because they are just words! Power lies in action and my words are simple sleep. I am average. Not a graceful person nor a graceful writer. A naive little girl who aspires to change the world, but who is left only with indignation for it.

My anger can't change the color of their sky.

And a symbolic Mary Poppins could somehow make it real.

Today I woke up and hated my bathroom. In its entirety, not just the mirror, but the white of the walls and how it made the day seem pale, and the burned out bulbs a reminder of how I was far too lazy to fetch replacements. But, of course, the big, unbiased reflector was my constant foe.

I think it's finally sinking in that it doesn't have to be. That it doesn't have to be more then the simple object it is, and that its sole purpose isn't to destroy and deprecate. Or maybe I could make it more then it is. Harness its powers for good, instead of the evil it was currently channeling.

I want to take every mirror I find and turn them into carousel horses.

And the ride would be more then satisfying. With the speed fast enough to be exhilarating without being terrifying. The music would be sweet enough to smile for, but not to make you feel overwhelmed by the pressure to.
And it would be beautiful.

So, glancing at your reflection, thrown out from a horses curly mane; maybe you'll see a stark, charming happiness. The kind you remember from being the first to open the new box of cereal.

Because I know it still exists. But, whenever I feel it, only others get to see it. I never time it correctly, and I miss it by a fraction of a moment. I'm greedy and jealous for it.
Maybe, if I witness it in my own face, it will be easier to remember its entity during the times I don't feel like sweet music.

The carousel would share with me.