It is inevitable; all the traumas you go through in life. Your soul bound to be fragmented . The dream that you will come out perfectly unscathed at the end, just that, a dream.

Yet, we boldly keep marching forward. Broken, our half smiles of deceit plastered to our faces. We move forward, although each step feels like we are trying to move cast iron legs, through reed filled waters. Our vision as murky as the depths we’re trying to navigate; hopeful that there is a bigger, brighter, happier ending in store. We kid ourselves into believing that we are destined for greater. Yet, that unspoken truth is; only a select few ever really achieve that golden place.

As I walk through my field, each stem of every flower has a misdeed. A regret, a flaw. I’m barefoot and the stones are cutting my feet but I keep moving forward. The ground harboring the prints, slick with my blood. No attempts ever made, to hide the destructive trail. Just reminders of how it was cultivated. My thousands of flowers.

My path has never been easy. Beaten but not the beaten path. I seem invariably drawn to the path in which my hair gets caught amongst the brush; the stones appear dry, but as I tread, they become slippery and dangerous. I live, full send, I hate with a vengeance, I take passion in my fleeting interests (always caught up in a moment) and I love three-fold all of the emotions that are stated above. My highs are high and my lows are devastating.

The clearing; haunted by the echoes of innocence and optimism, mock me. The flowers turn to dust and the bitter truth of all my actions, throughout the course of my journey, sour and decay on the vines. In total awareness, I have come to the understanding that I have never tended my field, but callously tread on the once green and vibrant sprigs of chance. Hindering all growth for change.

I cannot touch the vegetation on my path, I know that the reaction will be grave. I will become itchy and weak. Lungs burning and eyes raw from the tears that overflow. I cannot bear the scent that is so sticky sweet, it leaves a saccharine taste in my mouth. I. Did. This. I harvested each seed and placed it juuuuust so. I watered it with my empty words and fertilized it with my disillusionment. This is my field. All that is left is to keep walking.

Yours in a field of poppies, never stop moving,

The CR