Michael Jackson. One of the greatest performers of all time. The little boy who could never grow up or older. He was caught in a body born to perform. His soul was of another era; he didn’t know who he was. He looked at people through his heart. He was never really able to be himself. Even when he related (this is just looking from the outside), he was someone else—talented beyond his years. A businessman and a little boy at the same time. He looked in the mirror and didn’t like what he saw. So he changed it, but he could never change enough to overcome the inner demons. The ones he heard and no one else did.
He was weak in some ways and strong in others. He reached for love and it escaped him. He danced his heart out. His expressions were hard, demanding, reaching—but it was all a show. We enjoyed him; he gave his all on the stage and off the stage. He was compassionate, kind, gentle. He thought he would receive to the same in kind. But he didn’t, instead he was tortured, haunted by things we could never understand. Look at his face in the end and tell me what you see. That was not the Michael who started out. And I am only looking at the outside. We dare not judge him, how can we have our own demons. Michael was taken advantage of, robbed, lied on. Just imagine not being able to turn to or trust anyone. I hope he found Jesus. All the good you do all the love you profess Michael showed his to whoever he could. It’s too bad everyone shows their love after death. Not when his name was being slurred; Disney separated themselves from him. They stripped him of all his worldly goods but his love they couldn’t touch. He gave more than he could ever receive. His heart was in his music. I am writing from my point of view, what I saw.