My Face Value

Still—the thought is easier than the act—I stare upon a reflection I've come to know for a while. No longer are my eyes full of innocence, searching for understanding and an acceptable answer that I've still yet to receive when I cry within the mirror that shows the image of me, although that's not who I see. That's never been who I've ever seen, and as my present stare is accompanied with tears, I justify my adolescent sorrow, as I'm still building up belief for tomorrow, although I know it won't truly be tomorrow, because I'm still searching to find me when I look within my eyes now.

The warmth of weariness, when I try my damnedest to see me is a reminder of what I can never forget, of what I hope to one day, soon enough, get past—I know it won't truly be tomorrow. The value of who I should see was diminished the moment I saw an image of me in a form that has yet to leave, although you, yourself, left, to never come back. What you did must be what I'll do. My eyes should see me, but my mind sees you and those thoughts should have left too, but I'm trapped within the realm of four words: "I look like you." Not me, it's never been me, no matter how hard I've tried to find the beauty within who I see, my reflection tends to only act as a projector of who you were during those days you came around to stay, and within the blink of an eye, you left with no notice of when you'd be going on about your way. Such a fragile mind, seeking your attention, yearning for your love, in the mirror I stare upon, I've yet to see me, and solely me.

I'm still searching to find my face value, but it's beyond you I must first find the strength to get through, but my vision always seems to be blurred by the warmth of weariness, as I'm trapped within the realms of four words: "I look like you."

My 200 Cents

Denzel RX Casson