Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
After all is gone

Do we stay

Do we linger on this planet

To die another day

Do we wait upon these secret angels

To kiss us while we sleep?

Or do we choose to trust ourselves

The secrets that we keep

It's not my job to fill you in

Nor keep you out of mind

But If you look even deeper, then

Imagine the darkness you'll find

A dark so deep it drains the soul

Of all light and happiness

The darkness lives within you and me

You just haven't found it yet
 Dec 2015 Donald Trump
Day
All I did was fail today.
 Dec 2015 Donald Trump
Day
alice......*
stop trying to
keep the time
with a
broken watch.
 Dec 2015 Donald Trump
Day
At age five Lincoln was taken from his single mom, who would hit him constantly, and put into a foster home that already contained 4 other boys, all older then himself. He was so frightened; Lincoln had spent all of his life up until this point alone, in isolation and fear. While this new home eliminated the isolation he still spent most of his waking hours in tears. There were many people surrounding him but no one to trust. He had “parents” who only wanted his welfare check, “brothers” who only wanted him as a punching bag, and a social worker who only saw him as another lost soul amongst thousands.
By age 12, Lincoln had been in 6 different homes, all the same as the last. His first had taught him to be afraid, his second had taught him not to trust, his fourth had taught him to run, and his fifth had taught him to fight. He learned that some things are good to be true in his sixth home. He had the perfect family, a loving mom and dad who actually cared about him, but then everything changed. His new “dad” lost his job, and everything fell apart, stress tearing apart a couple and Lincoln being shipped off to yet another new place.
He was thirteen and living in a group home for boys. He felt the push of pressure and loneliness, and found a love for the taste of alcohol and craved the dullness it brought him.  Lincoln was bullied constantly and certainly fought back, he had learned from his first mother the ability to use his fists to let out some of the anger, the rage that wouldn’t go away.
Soon, the aggression building in Lincoln would prove to be too much for the system and he would be cast away, labeled as “hopeless” and sent to a juvenile center to be away from the “socially acceptable” people.
Only sixteen now, and already Lincoln had built a criminal record. Years of low self-esteem and insecurity leading to a life of substance abuse and ****** knuckles. No one looked at him and said “Now, there’s a good kid.”, but instead mothers quickly hushed their children asking “Why is his face bleeding?” or judgmental looks at the tattoos crisscrossing and covering the scars he was to ashamed to let anyone see.
By eighteen, and out on the street, he wandered from place to place staring out with blank eyes, hoping that someone would look into his eyes and see all of the pain and maybe, rescue him, but all anyone ever saw was just a punk who should stop smoking  and just “get a job”, as if it were that easy. As if, anyone had ever taught him how to lead a life that didn’t end up in prison.
On Lincoln’s twenty-first birthday, there was no one around to celebrate, no one to smile, no one to care. He sat on a lonely bench wondering if his birth mother was somewhere out there knowing that today was his birthday, or if she was even alive. He thought about his father, thinking maybe he was leading some luxurious life not even knowing that he had a son out in the world, all alone. He held onto the hope that maybe if his father knew he existed that maybe he would care.
But inside he knew, he knew that noone cared, and no one ever would. No one would ever be concerned about the boy who never knew love.
If we live life to die

Then why does it even matter?

We are told that happiness is the goal in life.

But there is no eternal happiness.

People still leave.

Anger still burns bright in our hearts.

Problems don't disappear.

They only get worse.



There is no way to stop it.

The threat of death is immanent.

You could die tomorrow.

What would your regrets be?

There would be so many in my case.

They say live for now.

But living for now is pointless.

Now always ends.



There is no escape.

We can't get away from it.

There is really no point to living this life.

So why do we make such an effort out of it?

We put up such a struggle to save our own lives.

But we're about to die anyway.

So tell me.

What's the point?

— The End —