I think you're beautiful but you probably think this is a poem.

There was a soft mysteriousness about him. Subtle, but it was there. He seemed sad, but hopeful. He had a kind heart, but life was not as kind to him. He was shy, but beautiful. His hair was dark, but he showed pale skin and pale eyes.  Eyes that absorbed and sent back light from every shade of blue, gray, and white. Muse-worthy. He had battles inside of him that he could not understand. He was unaware of the fact that a girl across the table, who had not even spoken to him, could recognize he was created by and of galaxies.

I never thought it could come back
The sadness and emptiness it grabbing me with their claws
Tearing up my soul
I gave you all I had
You told me once I'm at the edge you'll be gone
But now you've won
I was cheated on by you
You're the reason I'm dying slowly and losing everyone I had by my side
I'm now dead and I'll never forgive you
Your coming back and I can't stop you

I am depression.
I am the very thing that destroys lives.
I am the one that breaks friendships apart.
I am the one who's responsible for the scars on your wrist.
I am the one that prevents you from shutting your eyes at night.
I am the one that causes you to lose your appetite.
I am the one that makes you feel alone.
I am the reason you can't think straight.
I am your best friend when you went through a heartbreak.  
I am the gruesome murderer of your motivation.
I am the one that made you lose interest in everything.
I am the one that made you slack behind in school.
I am the reason you never made it to the school team.
I am the reason that you eat alone at lunch.


I am the reason that's you are a failure.

I moved to this town
fifty-four years ago
to live in a house that
was a two and a half
bedroom half a double
with two parents and
six siblings in a
welter of tumultuous
chaos and disarray.

Being the oldest, I
hated the confused
congestion and constant
bickering and fled
at every opportunity
to the houses of
friends who had their
own rooms, enough to eat,
and even peace and quiet.

At seventeen, having
graduated from high school
(barely), I was out
the door in a heartbeat
and on to hippiedom,
Europe, the middle east
the draft, drugs, Vietnam,
marriage and my own life.

Now, forty-seven years
later, I live in a small
apartment in the other half
of that same double house
with only a cat.

My parents are departed.
Strangers own their half.

It is quiet and serene
and all mine.
                      Forty-seven
years of running to end up
a foot from where I began.

Even Odysseus couldn't
compete with that feat.

I enjoy living here now.

It is everything it
wasn't when I was a kid.

Still, the irony would
be apparent to an idiot.

Forty-seven years of
running in a circle.
Life, not so much a
journey as eternal return.

  ~mce

"do not be attached"
I keep saying it to my mind,
but my mind just laughed,
and said
"you keep on saying that,
but you never do it"*
and then suddenly,
I realized,
it is easy to say,
but hard to do...
because, once you get attached,
detachment will leave marks.