I have such passion
I have an imagination
And I have reachable dreams
All I'm missing
Are the steps in between

When they sweet talked you
Complimented you
Made you feel
Special

You were in a world of darkness
One that was not created by your past
They came by
And took the darkness away
Allowing you to see the light
Not only in the world
But in yourself

The only problem was
You didn't create the light
They did

After they left
They weren't around to see
You doused yourself
In mediocrity

this is a day for blowing feathers
laying down in grass
singing to the cows
listening to the world speak
watching a spider
cradling a butterfly
whistling to the sun
eating breakfast
this is a day

Dancing,
Thrashing,
Cascading

Down the barren stone tower,
Through the craggy, coarse cliffs
Refining, polishing the necessary features
And streaming for the duration of my adventure,
One might wonder: Why?

Why! Oh what a question—
To purify what will soon be soiled in a moment’s time,
And yet, unremittingly,
Over, ad nauseam, again.

I cannot die.
No agony or desolation can destroy me.
Amaranthine, ceaseless, everlasting!
I hold steadfast, staunch, unrelenting.

I am a waterfall.
Nought can destroy me.
I am forever...

When I fingered the thin skin on my left, vein-bulging limb
Where the forearm adheres to the costly little hand
I realized in all my intense ardor for pain
That there in my penitence, self-pity, self-loathe
I am a narcissist.
Laden with self-obsessed sorrow
There is a selfishness in being a dreary,
To feel for oneself,
When others care too much
An aggregation of sympathizing sobs and tears
Too much for an egoist
Who would rather wallow alone
In the orange-tinted hue of twilight turned nightfall
A ray of the luster in all subtle shades,
Can I summon the force to recall
Why I hate myself
Is it not that all despise me for a purpose?
And those who are inept at reasonable loathe
Are marooned in deep shame
That they had degraded themselves for what?
For a felon? Such as myself?
Deep in such sorrow,
Deep in my self-loathe
I have encountered the truth of all fruitless self-regard
I am a narcissist, egoist, one who self-loathes
Who slashes and severs and cannot speak love

There's a comfort in being a doubter,
To be swayed by passionate conviction
As well as logical cognition,
If nothing can be proven then how can that be confirmed?
I am a doubter
I live in dim-lit twilight of faith unknown,
I doubt the doubter and all of faith
Is doubt not too a faith to move nations?
I am a doubter, an undecided,
Hopeful, hateful, shameful, trustless
Devoid, lacking any certainty
Don't doubt me! I'm not weak, not mean,
Not judgmental or hypocritical,
Just so uncertain and conflicted—
How can anyone believe
In anything, at all?