Compassion

Passion reeks of sweat.
Your heart flutters with excitement at first sight.
Stunned by the beauty and awed by its honesty.
You see It and everything stops.
Something about the whole world changes at that point.
Mind turns into machine as it calculates every single way it works.
Hands work as lightning as they are attempting to tear into it, observing every piece.
My mouth mumbling phrases like a foreign language.
I am a tourist turned resident.
My body home to my heart which aches at the departure.
Next time though, it says.
Next time will be for good.
Passion is like a baby to a mother.
A sweet breathing ball of love cradled in her arms.
You can almost see a link between them.
Drawing them closer and closer so that they are inseparable.
My passion is compassion.
I strive everyday to do the little things to make people happy.
My life is based around helping others because what else am I going to do.
I am told I am good at nothing. A failure.
My biggest critics are my worst idols.
The people I strive to be are like my brightest nightmare.
Every inch of horror and loathing brightened.
My mouth utters prayers as though I have never sates anything else.
They ask for forgiveness. Ask for safety.
I am but a teddy bear.
I am but a stuffed figure that they can throw around after a year.
My worn out fur now stained and rough.
My battle scars pop out like sinkholes.
My voice a bomb ready to blow another crater.
My ideals not the same as yours so I do not say a word.
My lips sewn so that maybe I can keep you.
If I open up and say the wrong thing I am thrown.
Its okay. I am always tossed around.
A hand-me-down for the next person.
But I am so much more.
I am an artist. I am a genius.
I am a human being.
My ideals deserve to be voiced.
My poems deserve to be read.
My words will blow the damn world to bits.
And as I am flying through space on this small chunk called home.
I will remember the passion I had, for caring about you.