Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
You would say life is how you make it, but I dont agree. Sometimes you can try your hardest and still feel on a ground, not able to get up, not able to see. There are times, when I dont see light. Sometimes, just one sparkle would be enough. Thats what makes me hold on. Life is not always bad but often it is. I guess what makes it good is the feeling. Being important, being pretty, being active. Being enough and still be you. I remember times when I didnt think of not being enough. I was a kid who didnt have a reason to feel that way. But as I was growing up, all the things around me, make me feel like giving up, on everything I want to be. I dont know, is it reversible? I always try my hardest in everything I do. I try to be the best student, the best friend, the best girlfriend. But all I feel like is fail because everytime I turn around, some things just disappear. Why they cannot just be good I ask. Why?
0
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 2:17 PM UTC
Life is good
You would say life is how you make it, but I dont agree. Sometimes you can try your hardest and still feel on a ground, not able to get up, not able to see. There are times, when I dont see light. Sometimes, just one sparkle would be enough. Thats what makes me hold on. Life is not always bad but often it is. I guess what makes it good is the feeling. Being important, being pretty, being active. Being enough and still be you. I remember times when I didnt think of not being enough. I was a kid who didnt have a reason to feel that way. But as I was growing up, all the things around me, make me feel like giving up, on everything I want to be. I dont know, is it reversible? I always try my hardest in everything I do. I try to be the best student, the best friend, the best girlfriend. But all I feel like is fail because everytime I turn around, some things just disappear. Why they cannot just be good I ask. Why?
Written by
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 2:17 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem