It gets hard when I wake up, and the reality I've seemed to create in my head starts to vanish.
It gets hard for me to pull myself out of my bed, when sleep is the only comfort I find in life.
It gets hard to smile, it gets hard to breathe,
when your dreams get crushed and torn at the seams.
It gets hard to write words that explain, the turmoil in my heart, soul, and brain.
It gets hard to simply exist, when you become aware of your surroundings and all the hope you've managed to conjure up seeps outside your being. In helpless whimpers and cries of unfiltered despair.
It gets harder and harder and I'm tired of trying.
If this is my goodbye to you then please understand that I was dying.

The sky is light blue and is pleasant to the eye, hospital lights are harsh and white, almost blinding and intense.
I lived as a silhouette, a shadow of everyone else, shortened at noon and lengthening in mornings, depending on the light, and like it was my self esteem.
I loved in the corners, silently. Looking at people and trying to know who they are from the way their hands moved in a conversation and the tiniest smile they’d have on their face when they talked about their passions.
I loved with all my heart, from the darker corners, so nobody knew.
I was a bulletin board, one where everyone came to hang their accomplishments on, I was the board that made everyone feel amazing and special, ignoring the stab of the pin and the hurt it caused when they put it on me.
I was a bulletin board, one where everyone looked at and felt motivated, one some would use for comparison, one that was always there, never changing, always being poked with new pins from all these wonderful people.
I was a bulletin board up until there came a day where everyone left, no one came poking and showing their pride, no one came to boast about their works. I was left and abandoned.
It was that day that I ripped them all off of me, hearing the tears and the echoes of the falling pins on the floor, feeling the tears that had fell from my eyes when I squeaked and rattled trying to break free from the wall, I was not a bulletin board anymore, I was a person with hopes and dreams.
And yet the pin holes never mended, they all sat gaping, never closing up, n filled.
The day I turned human my insecurities broke me apart, I was left a disfigured body and a deformed spirit.
Oh how I wish I could go back to being a bulletin board.

I'm afraid.
The sky is the same color as it was the day before and night is never bright, the stars are not visible too.
It rained today and its unusual, it only rains a few times every year, most think of it as a blessing, it makes me feel blue.
I hate thinking about the future because it's terrifying to me, as all roads lead to Rome, I feel as if  every decision I consider or end up making will lead up  to me becoming a failure, I bring upon myself my own rue.
I am so scared and my opportunities don't vary, I have yet to discover the meaning of life and with every day I feel myself getting older and older, getting by aimlessly through life, breathing stale air and eating and sleeping, just stoic.
I feel myself getting older day by day, and I worry, I worry so much and live in the torment of my worries, my mind won't stop. there's no way out, I live in a prison of my thoughts, and my dreams are not of console since they die and rot in this place as I type.
What of beautiful life? What of music? what of joy and love and hearts being full to the point of combustion? what of smiles and arms that hug you and lend you comfort? Am I not worthy of them? Does this place take everything that makes me human away?
I am nothing, my destiny is like that of everyone else, and that's what makes my insides quiver and sends a chill down my spine.
It's not being different that concerns me, but being like everyone else makes me feel like I'm slowly killing myself, destructing and crushing whatever wild flower that might've slipped and grown through the cracks of my sculpted mind. I can't be like everyone else.
I am afraid.
This place feels too small and yet it feels so big, my everyday life is a big deal to me and yet it is a segment that will never occur again in somebody else's life. A waiter, a stranger, a passing account on the internet. Isn't that crazy to think about? How you mean so little to a lot of people and they won't ever know your name, and how important it is to you and vice versa.
I can't comfort myself anymore and I am so afraid, something within me wants to be immortal, and the other wants to be forgotten.
I worry a lot, I seek comfort in anything and yet nothing does the job.
I'm afraid.
Of my mind,
Of my worries,
Of my fears,
and yet I know that they will take over eventually.