So far and yet so close we seem
to be from the things that make us happy.
At times, our game-winning shot misses.
At times, our lovers leave us to just wishes.
Hurt, pain, and sorrow lays in our end
to a life without love or friend.
These feelings strangle and smother
our peace like the wrath of none other.

Repetition. From repeated reaches to resurgence,
to taking tyrannical triumph, to taking rejoice,
I repeatedly have nothing. Words of
“try again” and “get over it” reverberate in
my mind, rocking my resolve to sleep.
Rupturing results rips, tears through tiers of
my resilience, turning me to tears. They creep
into my dreams, upon my thrills, onto my choices,
inside my hopes, like ants in tents. With cruel intent,
every failure rends me so intense.

But how to respond?
If I show a lack of care by a loss,
“Maybe it wasn’t too serious”.
But if I reply with hurt and sadness,
“maybe you’re just overreacting”.
But only for so long can I just
“make the best out of a bad situation”.
How many times do I need to fail,
in order to succeed?
If I didn’t care so much, then
I wouldn’t hurt so much.
But what is a life lived so unlively?
Why am I wrong to make the most
of what I’m given? To wish, to hope
is seen as good ambition when it’s
a success, but when I fail then I overdid it?