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Gentle Flower, Pick Those Flowers: My Inner Child is Not Broken

by Brittany Ann on September 29, 2016

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This picture inspired me. It looks exactly like I think my inner child does, a little bit of wonder but more of waiting for what is next. I’m sure my face looked very much the same. “Here’s some flowers I picked, Mama.” “Yes well, they look dead and we don’t have time for these things you do.”

The world has lost its way. We are seeing that right now. Our hope flows in our children.

But our children are being beaten to death, starved to death, for no other reason but perceived evil.

Not all little girls and boys find a soul that reaches out to them as they grow up. Some of them then have no idea how to deal with their pain. Some children raised by evil will act out in evil ways, but most of us fold into ourselves and cringe when we hurt a single soul.

© photo by Kristaps Bergfelds via flickr.

© photo by Kristaps Bergfelds via flickr.

It’s true, US young adults with PTSD, Bipolar, Borderline Personality, Schizophrenic traits that fall within both categories and are thus named such, we face stigma… but we are in ourselves, beautiful, glistening brown hair. A whisper of a voice as it was when we were a child. Think about that inner child.

I remember days of playing in the front yard, the side yard where a basketball was. I knew then that there was something wrong with me, and that when I wrote, I was writing out the feelings of an inner child.

Don’t leave, friends. I know how easy it is to want to. But the world will never see a perspective such as ours. Pick up a paintbrush, hell, pick up some concrete and glue the tiny pieces. If you can’t get the words out, get the hell out somehow, or get the beauty out. You have both here.

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