If you've been here before you know the tone
That I took four years ago when I began posting poems
It's a tone and topic I'd thought I'd finally grown past
I am dishearted and disappointed when I once again ask:

Why am I alive?
I see no purpose, no joy, no fun in life.
What am I doing here?
Why didn't I end it long before this year?

I am tired. I am impossibly tired and I will be tired impossibly longer
I am done. I want it to end. I am ready to end. I have grown no stronger.
I am still as weak as the child with a knife and far too much strife to stay
I am little more than I was, with the addition of love that wears on me every day.

Why am I alive?
I am no longer despondent when I ponder this.
Why do I exist?
I can't be bothered to breathe with this emptiness.

This will be my last poem for some time, I can't bear to read through my own thoughts.
This will be my existence for more time, I can't make happiness from what is not.
Thank you for reading and commenting and being the sweet people of a poetry site.
I will be here, in a day or a year, to regale you with more of my thoughts of life.

Though I have never felt my own legs quake
Though I stand firmly behind what decisions I make
Though regret is little more than a vital part of life to me
I consider my actions now; I am wracked with uncertainty.

The things I have choosen to do in life sit with me to vigil
I am far too weak as I currentlyam , my defences are fully riddled
With vulnerabilities I have exacted upon myself, I now review
The life I saw fit to live and the parts of it I now wish to undo.

Birth. I waver. That it may have never happened, that I didn't exist
The childhood I didn't savour. Despite the dreams it saw fit to twist
Pre-adulthood. I falter. I thought so much of what I thought I knew
My feeble hold on maturity. My newfound perplexion at what to do.

I am no longer the child with the world at fingertip and magic in my palm
I am little more than an adult with failing health and a shaky facade of calm
I am no longer stable, unchanging, and tough like the rock I was thought to be
I am wavering, quivering, shaking in terror; I am the manifestation of fragility.

Life is right-handed
Just a little bit different
Just slightly inoptimal for you
Or perhaps you are inoptimal for life.

You live with your left hand outstretched
But recieve with only your right.
And the world was made ever so slightly
Without you in mind.

Belonging is overrated
Unless, of course, you already belong.
But you've never quite fit in a square box
You're slanted, just a bit.

Perfection is impossible
For all those who haven't acheived it, at least.
You've never been a failure, just
You've never really fit.

Life is right-handed and you
You are not.
You are not a victim, not marginalized
You are not excluded or left behind.

But you are left-handed
And Life is not
And the world was made ever so slightly
Without you in mind.

She is evolving, has evolved, evolves right now
She sunk lower than before and soared straight up from the ground
She is who she was but she is also someone never before seen
She is and was evolving towards bigger, higher things.

She may land harshly and come to a gruesome, quick end
But the flight has always mattered more than the descent.
She may soar higher until her wings incinerate to dust
But she will evolve whether down on land or up.

She is evolving, call it a lifelong effort to transform
She's been becoming who she'll be since the day she was born.
She'll put in her all whether she receives failure or success
And she will evolve until she until she finally takes her rest.

I can't breathe. My heart is beating five times a second.
I'm dying, help me, please, please, I can't breathe.
...
..
.
The doctor in emergency said it's just anemia.
The lady in emergency said it's just anemia and heartburn.
The man in emergency said my heart is fine, fine, fine.

I don't believe it, I'm dying.

There are bumps in my throat and my nose is running
I'm sneezing and coughing and fatigued
I don't have a fever but my chest is killing me
My jaw, throat, and head hurt periodically. How can I not be dying?
...
..
.
"Psychosomatic."
.
..
...
*******. ******* for that.
I think I'd know **** well if I'm panicking by now.
This is real. This is what death feels like.
This isn't in my head. I'm not crazy.