Of Tongues Swollen with Lies.

First one in awhile. I know, I'm rusty, but tell me what you think. He knows who he is in which this is written somewhat for.
-------------------------------------------------

When someone writes you out of your life
you can't write them back in.

I'm finding it hard to breathe now.

It's like you forgot who you were, there for a moment. But I won't let you forget.

My parents once told me, "Walking isn't the first step, crawling is," and I know when to believe them. My parents were smart. However, I've come to realize that walking nor crawling may be the first step. Now, I'm not saying my parents were wrong or anything, but maybe we all get a little smarter, the older the earth turns beneath our feet. I've realized the first step is opening your eyes, taking your first breath, and accepting you're alive.

We've all accepted something we didn't want at one time or another.

And maybe some of us accepted our first breath without thinking.

Ha. That first breath. The start of some smokey air, if I may say. (They've told me it's dangerous to breathe in second hand smoke. What if you're the one causing it, exhaling dirty oxygen, but then re-inhaling it? It's not so tasty, then, is it?)

When someone writes you out of their life
they won't write you back in.

And suddenly you feel like a carcinogen to the brain. That smokey air has turned into a cancerous, festering blister (metaphorically, of course) and it's pulsing more and more each day. Suddenly, you feel like a tumor resting in the leg; you're useless and no one wants you, yet somehow you affect their lives (in a bad way). But whatever were you, but a group of dying cells? It wasn't your fault you're now the blister to their heel.

They asked for it, they did, the way they just wrote you out of their life.

They didn't bother to say goodbye; no, they took you to the doctors and the doctor cut you out of their life. Just like a dirty, festering blister.

It hurts to believe you're nothing to them anymore; not even a verb or a noun. Yet, looking into the eyes of that doctor, who cut you out (by the way, this metaphor here means "friends") you feel a little sympathy filling your bones. Sadness only embeds itself into two places; a person's eyes and heart. It's not seen or felt elsewhere. You know God means business when you see and feel it in both.

Speaking of God, you can blame him all you want. But the thing is, He gave you millions of ingredients to mix together and make yourself what you wanted to be; He gave you that choice. It's not His fault he'd rather listen to Lucifer speak than your whining cries. He gave you everything he wanted you to be (let's say, a good personality, healthy morals, and a beautiful smile) among a few other ingredients. But he let you choose, and here you are choosing stunning eyes, heartless morals, and maybe a dash of an ego. It's not his fault you're failing at life. So, go ahead, blame God (who may not even be there), you'll feel better, you'll find.
Your throat can swallow as many lies as you choose, but sooner or later, you're tongues going to be swollen.

When someone writes you out of your life
it's not their fault, it's yours.

Notice the wording in the sentences. Does it sound familiar, like the screams in your head? You. Yes, I speak of you.

Yeah, we're all a little lost, sure, but some of us don't mind it.