Plain Jane

Ive been staring at a face I usually would skim over. Plain Jains are a phobia. I see a white piece of paper of where you are standing. But instead of holding a paint brush to add to it, I just walk on by. I used to be more drawn to blank canvas. Always thought they were hinding somthing, somthing under all that nothing. Turns out when you tear it apart you find more white then the clouds have ever seen In each other. And more empty then my third grade birthday party. Words like, flat line, or Mediocre come into play. If I surround myself with locked doors that I've never known where locked, then how am I supposed to get out. If I keep limiting myself because of comfort, my life will stay at a standstill. Anxiety is real, but so is Santa. Your brain can make up a trillion thoughts a minute but maybe only one comes through. And being me is scary. But being a plain Jane is a hell of a lot scarier.