My Tattered Umbrella

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I cover myself with a tattered umbrella, but it no longer can withhold. My sidewalk is now cracked. The strings have been broken. I am left here. My mind consumes me. I’m screaming out. Whenever my mind becomes idle, my deepest fears; darkest secrets reach the surface. The weight of my baggage has me gasping for breath. I’m ashamed of my thoughts, embarrassed by words, sickened by my actions. I do not understand why I feel so desperate for relief. Is it not true that I have only followed the crowd? I fear that I’m the only one that thinks this way… alone in a plastic world. To be true to myself means to be true to others. I am an outcast. To speak is the hardest battle, to be heard is victory. I’ve gone astray, but I no longer have the desire to be found. I want nothing to do with this two-dimensional town. Is not true that what was once a culture has now become law? The standards have been distorted. What was once honorable is now disregarded. I am now overlooked. Judging by the inside, I fear I stand out like a box of crayola in a black and white world. On the outside, I am still as plain as an unused napkin. How do I color my skin? Intolerance has come too far. I close my worn umbrella and set it aside. I skip across my sidewalk. The strings have been replaced. The feeling is wholesome. I have reached the sunlight.





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