when did writing start hurting so much
being honest with myself so hard?
my words bled into sunsets, moonsets, dawns, dusks and the like
all my times were marked in some thing written for me to look back on
but when did it become so physically difficult, so heavy
to be honest with myself?
maybe it was when i realized that the mundanity of life is the
gravebed of my soul, having money to myself was not that great?
maybe when i realized that art for art's sake just reeks of desperation
and those younger than me became renowned and my age started to join
the generation meant for engagements, marriages, less social possibilities
and i then realized that i was lying to myself out of sheer desperation
but that i was desperately alone, desperately fighting scared,
flying was no longer a dream come true, and the worldspan measured
across the palm of my hand had already happened and i was an emu
left for extinction, my soul just a joke, an ironical metaphor
for the jaded cynicism that i had condemned and i read more and saw more
realizing i am frog at the bottom of a well and my victim mentality
was maybe a figment of imagination, and the hellscape of my perspective
being skewed drove around, round, round in my mind, such a frightening
possibility that what if?? what if?? i was just insane?? i was crazy??
was anything that happened to me that bad?? is there something wrong with me??
i was almost convinced and then i felt my heart truly shatter
i realized i did not actually matter