I’m doing fine.
I hugged an actor I like, and for some reason that stirred an emotion that I would classify as Foreign to me, happiness.
I am a passing fan and I know he forgot all about me by now, and yet meeting him made me feel like I could accomplish anything I’ve ever wanted. It’s silly, I know.
My cycle of self loathing is breaking and mending itself, and I’m stuck dealing with the shards and broken pieces that I pick up after myself, after my own destructive mind manages to break me.
I am scared- no, terrified, of the future. I’m scared of becoming a failure and I’m scared of becoming something I’ll end up hating. I’m scared of a stable life and a nine to five job. I’m scared of leaving my dreams behind in a desk drawer and continuing to live as a copy of everyone else.
Safe, in my comfort zone. Locking away my passions and dreams as phases of youth.
I’m doing fine.
I keep doubting every single decision I ever made. And I keep trying to cry out my fear and confusion to no avail. I keep drawing lines upon lines on a blank paper, somehow trying to see a meaning, or a sign, in between for me to keep going. To keep living.
I’m doing fine. I’m doing fine. I’m doing fine.
There’s a roof above my head and food on my table, there’s a bed for me to sleep on and I’m financially stable. So what is it? Why am I up at night feeling sorry for myself? Why am i complicating simple things?
I wish my brain would stop working. I wish I could play silence as a song. Loud and deafening. I wish I could stop my own mind.
I’m doing fine.
My friend is miserable and I am of no help, everything I try to mend ends up breaking. I’ve never felt so helpless. I love her to death. I love her more than I could fathom.
I’m doing fine,
My soul is decaying.
I’m rotting away.
I need help.
I am not pleased, by the way the world works, with its cruelty and injustice, and also, the shape of my feet.
I am not pleased, with how my friend is so great and yet her misfortune is greater, and the broken home that shelters also her breaks her on the inside.
I am not pleased, of how my eyes water when I say silly words and yet I cannot cry out my misery.
I am not pleased, sitting still and waiting for an epiphany .
I am not pleased by the way we all deny the evil inside us,
taking comfort in the idea of the light in us being so strong that if we saw it, it would blind us.
and yet I still wait for you to realize.
I am not pleased by the punishment life gives us for no apparent reason, and the boredom inside me that makes life so dull,
almost unbearable to be in.
and yet I still dance around and enjoy silly tunes,
in hopes of it easing my prominent loneliness and misfortune.
I hope you enjoy this ****** poem although its definitely not great
The record plays, ends, and stops.
I still don't understand my teardrops.
Days end and start,
I still can't comprehend your depart.
the windowsill becomes hot, cold, freezing, and warm
I still longingly wait, with an outstretched palm.
for a return that is impossible, no figure will come running back,
no figure will hold me in their arms until they become slack.
I mourn in a black dress, and pray at night in white,
for the return of a laugh, a smile, a hug
that once chased away all of my fright.
and I know the truth, I know the truth of it all
I know that you're dead, not waiting in the hall.
Yet I can't help but pretend, can't help but wonder
Why was life so kind and beautiful before you went under?
In my cold vacant room
Amid the dreadfulness
of longing for you
and my tale of woe
And the sonnets i wrote for you
And the familiar sense of awe
On my pillow
that smells like you
Mid each throb,
I covet you
As i crawl back
to my gloom
Underneath my sheets
My soul shivers,
to bide my time with you
My miserable soul has seeped through the tightly shut surfaces. Through my eyelids, through the wall I have built to shut off all these feelings and thoughts that I don't want. These thoughts and feelings that I don't want to acknowledge, these thoughts and feelings that make me who I am.
My soul is seeping through my tear lines and cracked surfaces of my hardened heart. The heart that was abandoned and left to fend for itself, the heart that doesn't fully know how to mend. The heart that only knows cracking bit by bit, inside the fist of this unfair universe, as it puts more pressure on its hold to break me.
My miserable soul is seeping through my calloused fingertips, as I run them over all the wounds I have inside and out. I feel my soul seeping through the place between my shoulder blades, protruding from my body and growing into blue wings that will not help me fly, but make fall to the ground.
My miserable soul is seeping through the cracked words I speak and the roots of trees that I walk by, my soul is seeping through the air I breathe and the dirt in the ground as I dig deeper and deeper, digging in hopes of calming myself and detaching all the sorrows of my soul from my flesh and bone.
My miserable soul is seeping through the raindrops that cover my glasses and the mud that's on my shoe, my soul is trying to cling and detach itself to me and I don't know what to do, it's pulling me left and right and I feel like it's ripping me apart. I feel as if I am just as lost as I was before yet something is so clear ahead of me that I sing to drive it nearer, that I cry to make it come closer, that I hurt to make it visible. That I simply do anything that proves I'm alive and human but it never appears before me. I'm grasping on straws and all there is left are my tear stained cheeks as I engrave paper with useless words. Words that make no sense, words I thought would guide me but I'm just as lost as I was when I first grabbed a pen to write as a child...
I'm lost all the same but then I was lost in this world I'm living in and now I'm lost in the confines of my own head.
— The End —