Don't lie to yourselves,
and don't you dare lie to me
because I know that selfishness
doesn't tie nooses
nor does it
fire gunshots into the mouths
of the so called "selfish."
Shame and guilt are the culprits
the ones who cut wrists
and overdose on pills.
Yet, I'm afraid
that they are seldom
held responsible for their
actions.

When I was young my parents told me I could be anything I want and to do what I love, but as I got older I realized what they meant was that I can be whatever is financially stable and acceptable in society. But I can’t help think…what’s the point in that? Spending my entire life working up until I become old and frail, and only then can I do what I love? By then the motivation that I feel now to go out and enjoy my life will be gone. And even if I do feel any motivation to go out and do it, my options will still be limited due to my age. I don’t see the point in waiting around to enjoy my life because isn’t that just the point? To be happy, to fulfill your dreams and goals? I don’t understand it. Am I just a fool to believe what my parents told me? What everyone told me? I don’t want to have a paycheck dictate my life, is that too much to ask?

A subcutaneous doubt musters and you itch
The shore line depression is here without hitch
A sea of harps instigating an emotive atrophy
You discharge and you dive with certain alacrity

There is a boat afloat out in the briny of spite
Oar-less and holey amid the bark and the fight
You plunge and you quaff as you leave quiet behind
A clamber and a climb and inside you will find

Ruckus and roar as you rock with each crash
Thunder and hail as the waves tempestuously lash
Gladden with the grim elation preserves you
Mirthful and drugged whilst the wet pours through

To the most aphotic of waters that drags you deep
The boat now just wood unto rocks in a heap
Too eager to leap and now too weak to swim
A stoical sink under madness to dim

The seashore despair was a lie to itself
The still and the shielded brimming with wealth
Never attempt to weather a storm
Of a storm as endless as that of that storm

A wish that you stayed a want that you listened
You’d still be where her green eyes glistened
Where love and the good is now once tendered
Most is best left as how it’s remembered.