Clutching at water and taking no prisoners

I see art in a few I've known. Some realize their power, others remain safely ensconced within their box and most likely never will.

Attempting to harness the light within her she wavers on the precipice of success, trying to implement as if following instructions instead of just letting it go, letting it flow. Trying to grab the light it slips through fingers like water, to spill at her feet creating an ever-growing puddle, a rippling energy pool of desire reflected back.

It is there certainly, within, she can feel it behind her eyes, its aftertaste always in the back of her mouth, why can't she reach it, why can't she get a grip on it.

Cup your hands and let it fill the space like water from an ice blue Spring, so cold it burns, the sensation indiscernible from that of fire, face the pain, take the pain, allow it to pass over you and through you and remain untouched, that's all it takes.

A maddening existence surely, to be a fountain, a fountain that draws them all to dip their cups and bathe in the healing waters, while she remain forever parched, not a single swallow to ease her thirst. Forced to lick the moisture from the hands of others, from between their legs just a taste and nothing more. It's an oral maxillofacial energy fixation, but you're prognathism is not severe enough to reach it.

It must hurt the pride to watch others cool their toes in her waters, grow strong and enrich themselves from what she creates. Always having to settle for whatever is offered, a crust of bread and a bit of meat thrown her way, like slaves that came before her. Sexual favors granted to her for services rendered, not because she is really wanted. Why don't they want me? Why do they always want someone else, not me?

It's not long before frustration turns to anger, anger to rage, rage to rampage, a struggle to keep herself in check against the desire to lay waste to all around and anything which stands in her way, the easy way, the safe way, a way without fear, the way of the destructor. Still she yearn to turn the page, turn the page on that whole bitter distasteful mess, start over from scratch maybe it'll be different next time, yes next time with someone new, there's always hope it will be different the next time. I can do it right this time, I can be good.

But then, as if it were out of her control -- at least that's what she tells herself -- it starts again, in another time and place, new faces and eyes to look into, new hands to drink from, only to watch it all happen again. In the end it's the same, always her standing alone defiant proud, in control, the old way, the familiar way, the way of survival, but at the same time always refusing to grant herself a solution to the question she keeps asking and only she can answer. A curse, some would say, perhaps so, but at least she's still alive, priority one, all other priorities rescinded.

Why does this keep happening to me? why? Me?

Don't dare tell her what she refuse to see, don't remind her of what I can never accept, or she'll make you pay, and pay dearly. A lesson none of them ever forget, always hit back 10 times harder than you were hit, that's the only way they learn to respect you, that's the only way to make them leave you alone.

The price for all those who attempt to push their agenda disguised as help upon her...war...pain...punishment...Jihad... banishment...for life. "First last second chances." Don't test me fucker, she exclaims with a gleam of violence in her eye.

And so it goes.