There is a certain beauty about the uncertainty of life,
prominence in the assumption that anything's possible.
The daily routines we embark on;
goal-setting, chasing dreams, breaking hearts,
mending broken hearts, emotional turmoil: happy highs,
sad lows, anger towards our failures.
An endless cycle of uncertainty, yet we push on.

There is beauty in that, the uncertainty, so I perceive it.
I love subtle beauty, it opens your mind up.
Aesthetics are not the only beauty, in my eyes.
There is beauty in the stumble and stagger of
a broken heart.
There is beauty in the defeat from an exhausting day.
Beauty in falling out of love, exempting yourself out
of agony.
Beauty in scathing through, barely afloat, to make ends meet.

Beauty, it may as well be that.
Life is open to all sorts of possibilities;
there is beauty in the fact we push on in spite of the hurdles -
push on in the face of struggle and defeat,
push on when everything's going well, of course,
push on when our dreams fail and need altering.
The beauty of life is not in romanticising struggle,
but in that there is strength within all of us;
a strength that fails to yield in the face of defeat.
We are beauty for pushing on.

I don't know how much longer I can hold on.
Hold on to feeling worthless -
hold on to an emptiness.
That is what life is for me;
Empty worthlessness.

It gets better, they say,
those who found meaning.
It gets worse, I say in return.
It gets worse living in my skin.
It gets worse with each waking day.

There is an unwanted tenant living in my mind -
one that keeps drowning me with the air I breathe.
The pain worsens with each fighting manoeuvre.
It feels like my body is rejecting me -
rejecting my mind.
I don't blame it, even I have had enough.

It's difficult to accept being like this -
I try to fight it,
but the joy of living has been ****** out of me.
This emptiness leaves me wondering -
wondering,
how much more of this pain I can take.

The emptiness visits as dusk begins to fade away.
The loneliness awakens to indulge your thoughts.
The sadness rinses your eyes,
and you begin to converse with the thoughts;
thoughts that continue to manifest 'til your body aches.

You lay, achingly;
tears leaving your face with marks.
Thoughts, rumbling like an endless drum-roll.
Your insides, sore,
chest, tightening -
breathing, difficult.
Your hands, limbs, trembling uncontrollably.

A feeling unexplainable if never felt.

This emptiness hurts -
this feeling of constant melancholia and worthlessness,
this shedding of tears,
this pain - hurts.

Somehow, the body manages to shut down;
you find peace in your sleep -
a peace that is disturbed every hour 'til you wake.

You wake to relive the nightmare of yesterday;
Aching, pondering why you continue to hold on.
Holding on 'til the inevitable happens.

I would love to meet all of my selves;
To dine with, and hold clarifying conversations.
I have long been wary of my many personalities,
embraced them, and cherished each one of them.

I wish I could individually meet each one of them.
To hear them introduce themselves;
To hug me and comment on the pleasure of meeting me.
To understand them, as seperate persons outside of me.
To hear their stories,
what groomed who they are;
to hear about their days,
and talk about their feelings;
for them to tell me if I give them enough of me.
Do they even like me, or like being a part of me?

They mould who I am;
They are who I am.
They carry me when I am at my weakest;
They are weak with me, cry with me -
laugh with me, love with me,
and wander with me, at 3:55 am.

Would I enjoy them,
and want them to remain a part of my life?
Are they individuals with stories,
who also need to be heard?
Part of being understood is being heard.

We learn new things about ourselves all the time;
Maybe, that is how we meet our own selves:
In Epiphanies about our identities.

In this world, only two things are perfect;
The world spinning on its axis,
And the sun shining at its fullest.

Everything else isn't -
Rains falls as you fix yourself up,
preparing for that date she finally said yes to.
It snows -
the day you decide to finally leave your room.
And you lose someone important,
on the evening your tears are the heaviest.

There is no being perfect in an imperfect world.
Flowers grow on solid concrete pavements.
Rivers aren't enough -
for plants to survive the wreckage of Autumn.
And you lean in for a kiss, to be met with a friendly hug.

You make time for people who are too busy for you.
You make friends with strangers you'll never meet.
And you find out you are allergic to shellfish -
while on a quest to try out new things.

In this world, only one other thing is perfect:
Imperfections.

It hurts when it ends.
When everything you have ever needed,
decides it no longer needs you.

When it ends, it's the beginning you think of.
That first memory of it -
a precious bliss;
like sunshine, after a storm.

When it begins, it does not say when it'll end.
It never disclaims the pain you'll go through.
It promises happiness, and joy.
It promises forever.
And when it ends, it's the storm that is forever.
A storm that floods your insides with an eternal agony.

For, when it ends, you wonder;
how can this end -
when it is everything you have ever loved,
and needed?

You took away my poems.
You took away my journal entries.
You took away my writings.

But, in return, you gave me happiness.
You gave me a best friend, a lover.
You gave me someone who sees beyond my pain,
who sees strength in my weaknesses.

You took away my loneliness.
You took away my solitude.
You took away my habits.

And gave me someone to spend my time with.
You gave me new habits, good habits.
In my darkness, you gave me moonlight.

Love; you may have taken away things I dwelled in,
in my recluse, but, in return,
you have given me internal joy;
someone who picked up pieces of me,
made a collage, and calls it beautiful.