No man is as attentive to stoplights as the one who must leave his loved ones.
I feel like I'm losing control of my life. She betrays me and says she's sorry. I believe her but I know I shouldn't. I love her but I know I shouldn't. I feel like a puppet who's trying to cut his strings. Stuck in a cycle of Stockholm Syndrome. Is love any different? I feel like it should be. It used to be, but now it's just an inability to defect. Threats more abundant than thoughts.
Sometimes I feel courage to leave, which rapidly turns to fear. How could someone let go of his or her greatest memories? And yet those memories become spoiled and all I'm left with are fallicies in disguise.
I think I can follow through this time around. Yet where would this leave me in the end? Is it worth it? Doubt consumes action and doubt begets doubt. Left with my nemeses: stagnation and insecurity.
Is the risk worth the reward? What is the reward? Reward should not be synonymous with pleasure. My prize for action will be my drive for inaction.
This gyre known as love. . .will it ever seize its pull?
Focus on what's ahead
And not what's been said
There's a realm of perplexity
Beyond the walls of reality
A consequence of wits
Behind a shroud of eyelids
A constant sense of foreboding
Of every recent shortcoming
A conglomeration of me
And all i seek to see
But this depth is too deep
And the ***** is too steep
The pull is constant and steady
My own will feels petty
Condemned to my hazy abode
Muddled at the node
Seeking only to find a path:
The dreams of a polymath
A poem about dreams
He makes dreams a reality.
For a brief moment in time.
He knows just when to visit.
Except when i miss him.
Sometimes he comes with gifts.
Which only remind me of him.
He is the most tangible imaginary friend I have.
But at least the others stick around.
He leaves when I'm asleep.
I'm left alone in my dream.
He is not someone I made up.
But I still can't see his face.
I wish he would stay.
I really do.
A poem for my daughter.
Empty doesn't describe it. Pain doesn't describe it. I can only put it as suffering. Forced to continue existing. I don't know why I'm here anymore. I don't feel like I have a purpose anywhere. I don't fit in anywhere. I don't want to fit in. I don't want to accept anyone so I wear a mask. I wear it so well I even believe myself sometimes.
But in the back of my mind, I know all my pleasure is fake. The closest I've been to happy is when I live it through my family or friends. And since I can't experience that day to day, I realize I haven't felt joy since.
I'm not a good lover. I'm not a good brother. I'm not a good friend. I'm not serving any purpose. I hate my occupation. I hate my environment. I hate being expected to perform when all I want to do is suffer in the shadows.
I have no goals, I have no dreams, and I have no talent or skill. I'm just a pawn in the game of life. I take the route that lets me in but leads to nowhere. I live a life others have before. A life others have lived. One that they gave purpose to. Something I failed to do. Something I know I won't get the opportunity to.
I hate everything and yet don't care. My insignificant role in this world is made even more insignificant everyday. I feel as if I'm walking with a countdown over my head that everyone can see but me. Something that informs them I am only temporary.
I know if I left, no one would grieve. No one would understand and therefore not care to understand. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to make others happy. I wanted to see my lover smile and laugh.
The world doesn't need me and I know it. I don't want to believe it but I know it. I'm just a trashcan for people to throw clutter into. A shredder that takes it all and turns it into nothing. Everything thrown at me comes out meaning nothing in the end. I'm a catalyst used for making nothing happen.
If i fail as a positive contribution, then why bother. I will continue clinging to the nothingness I feel. It is all I know. It is all I will ever know.
This is contentment.
Another poem from a rough time in my life
Anguish is me. Suffering is my blood. Pain is my heart. Despair is my brain. Numb is my touch. Gone is my soul. All I see is meaningless. All I know is nothing. My thoughts are like clouds showering acid, filling the growing rivers of depression. Sprouting more and more trees of anxiety. Sending bile snowballs cascading down mountains of doubt. Confusion festering, enough to black out the sun of belief. Traumatic obsession blinding my reason. Uncertainty fueling my unrealistically present pulse. The Reaper is hiding just out sight. A carrior-eater perched upon my brow. Grief and misery controlling my destiny. No distraction will conquor this day. Nor the days to come. I will function - but only enough to exist. My purpose is naught. My intentions selfish. Empathy was not made for me. I am in a world with no one else, yet they can see me. This world is quiet. This world is somber and yet more inviting. I've shattered the looking glass.
So don't come looking.
From some bad times
— The End —