And you
You don’t listen
You just wait for me to stop talking
And I keep on giving
And you keep on taking
And it’s draining
I hate you for it
But I hate me more
Because I let you take
And I keep giving
And it never ends
This thing that we’re living

Sometimes
it all seems so real
     Like this reality weighs heavily on my chest and I can’t breathe.
my stomach jumps and sends this cold fire throughout my body and I feel it.

I feel the world boiling in my consciousness and there’s no release that could possibly be worthy of this feeling.
Then I tell myself I'm just being dramatic and I tamp that feeling down with my fear and sadness and a yearning for eventualities.
Sometimes I’m not sure what I mean.
Sometimes I make stuff up.
But really I’m just an awkward almost-twenty year old who wants her life to be something.
Extraordinary
But.so.is.everyone.else.
And isn’t that right?
Isn’t that rich?
That we are all one.
A vast ocean of “ones”.
I’m really just a wave.
And it is alright to be a wave.
Because waves, they move.
It’s alright to be dramatic though. Why not?
I have this mind that wants out and I keep suppressing it. At least I’m pretty sure I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe it is only on occasion that I tell it to shut up because it all is just too much.
That’s probably it.
Who am I really?
I guess I could list all of my traits and that could be who I am. Or what I have accomplished in life, and presto, you have…me.
Then there’s this consciousness that sits inside this flesh and controls it. That could be who I am. But that consciousness is just the acts it has achieved and the traits it has portrayed, is it not?
So I guess what I’m saying is.
The I that is me has not achieved satisfactory on my scale of living by which I measure my worth.

Not yet anyway

I make lists
to organize my life into lines
on a page
some lists are for groceries
others for wishes
I make lists of "to do's"
for the satisfaction of crossing them off
I scribble thoughts onto paper in the late hours of the night
I make lots of lists
of things I'm grateful for
of goals still awaiting their accomplishment

to remind myself I exist

I guess it's also a form of obsessive compulsiveness
that comes with not knowing who you are
or being unsure of where you're going
I make lists
to slowly, deliberately, write myself into a person

I do not fear death.                                                                                                                                                                                                                I fear a life not lived.

To feel the hot, melting silver of tears                                                                                                                                                     and the warm enticement of laughter,

To be ripped apart from the inside out                                                                                                             by the icy shards of a broken heart,
                                                                                                                            
To play music and feel the notes resonate through your body                                                                    and whip up the quiet soul into a wild frenzy,

That is living.

To move through life by merely drifting without purpose,                                                                     instead of chasing after dreams,

To never pick up a book,                                                                                                                                   and pour through the pages indulging in the beauty of language,

To blindly follow the shallow conventions of today,                                                                               without realising the exquisite wonders of the past,

That is not living.

Death is a long, undisturbed sleep,                                                                                                                                                     an eternal peace.    
                                                                                                                                                      
A life not lived is looking without seeing,                                                                                                hearing without listening.
                                                                               So what is there to fear in death?

science now has shown it plain as plain
that clouds and coastlines share an abstract bond
as do trees - indeed each green or grain
yes, every leaf and every twirling frond -
the large may be divined within the small,
an ocean in a single drop of rain -
minute the variation to recall
complexities of evolution's chain;  
no need to travel far as either pole
to plumb the depths of man or womankind
and while there is uniqueness in each soul
our kindred nature's easy there to find
    we all tell truths - yet none are free from lies
    thou seest all in every person's eyes

The darkness
encompasses me,
like the folds of
a blanket.
Its warmth is
welcoming.

The familiarity of  
the darkness
is hard to
turn down.

So I snuggle
ever deeper
into its folds.

However,

When I struggle
to get out,
to breathe a breath of
fresh air,

I am always
dragged back into
the sweet confines
of my
blanket.