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The breeze is cool
Filling my lungs
It's cold
Yet comforting
It envelopes me
Sending chills
That I enjoy
The rare warm air
Feels homely
Feels honest
Feels real
Proof that
I'm still
Human
Even a small flame in darkness can light the path.
no matter what I do,
I don't feel alive anymore.

but when I did feel alive,
I wished I was dead.
I don’t know if I feel happy anymore,
but sometimes I don’t feel numb
and I call that happiness.
it’s more peace than happiness.
it’s more of a relief.
in these moments, I feel something
and I know that I’m still alive.
I must be alive
if I can still feel
…right?

when I get asked about my scars
and how I could possibly do something
so cruel to myself,
I want to say that
when I did it,
it wasn’t cruel.
I wasn’t trying to die.
I was trying to remind myself
that I’m not dead yet.

I’m a writer.
I’m supposed to be good with words,
and I am.
so why can’t I tell you how
I’m really doing?
why do I keep saying “I’m fine”
when I’m anything but fine?
why can’t I find the words to express
this feeling?

no,
it’s not a feeling.
it’s the lack of a feeling.

I haven’t learned
how to explain this yet.
I’ve spent years leaving and entering
this numbness,
over and over.
I think I’ve spent more time in it
than out of it.

I didn’t learn much, but
now I know that

the only thing worse
than feeling pain
is feeling nothing.
Hey. I know it hasn't been easy for you lately. It never was.
You feel alone in the darkness.
You feel lost. It hurt's.
You are tired. Tired of fighting in battles.
Fighting to do new things, and improve yourself.
Many wounds did not recovered yet.
Yet you are still here,
Fighting in the middle of the battle in your life.
Maybe it is one of the battles that will decide your fate,
Who knows.
I know that you don't get the rest and happiness you want.
That people don't even seem to help you.
They just judge you.

But may I tell you something. Who are they?!
Who are they, to tell you that you can't, that you are bad,
that you should change?! Who are they?
You have been in war for so long that it became your home.
There is no silence, rest, and happiness.
But you still have the goal and destination.
You still can have a piece of art, poetry, beauty, and love.

Maybe it's not so much to enjoy,
maybe not every day is sunny and beautiful and filled with love.
But yet there is something, that makes you feel alive.

I know it's hard sometimes, it seems like it will never change.
You are tired, exhausted, sad, broken, hurt, lost, alone, in pain.
I am not going to make the pain, problem, or bad things go away.
But I am here because somehow the World, God, or the Universe wanted you to read this.
It was a part of your life, maybe not a big one, but at least it is there, it always was there for you, waiting in silence.
Waiting for you to fall down on your knees and cry out loud.

Now listen to me,
Listen carefully. Be brave, be strong, be happy, be smart, be alive.

Take the heavy sword that is covered with dirt and with your own blood.
Take it up, that heavy, strong sword to protect yourself and to win the battle.
Look around,
There are so many kind people who love and care about you.
There are so many beautiful landscapes and places that are waiting to be discovered by you.
And the most important, your destination. It is waiting for you.

So soldier, are we retreating, or shall we try and survive this battle, maybe even win it.
Your commands?
please make it stop
the pain of a beating broken heart
why wont it stop?
nothing is moving
except the hand on my clock
when will it stop?
it's unbearable
terrible
maybe i can rip it out
or drive a stake through it?
something please make movement
everything is so still
am i alive?
have i died?
all the days they seem to blend
will this pain not go away
not even at the end?
god make it stop
**** me if i'm not already dead
someone please
i'm begging you take my head
A leaf drifting thousand miles,
against the wind, it live.
A mountain stood arrogantly,
against the withering time, it live.
Therefore, those who persist are alive,
the dead dare not struggle.
Struggling is life, persisting is life,
but life is not struggling or persisting.
Seeing it again
That innocent view
Undisturbed eyes
Bright, clear and new
Open

Feeling it again
Pastures of grass and light
Butterflies as fairies
Magic is true sight
It feels so good

To be open
To feel alive
Excited to be alive

I am human
Imperfect naive little human
But it's so hard to Be
I have to give us some sympathy
This is a frightening journey
But I am doing it

Prouder
Stronger
Open
Here

This experience is art
My Life is a symphony
The human experience an exhibition
It's all so tragic and beautiful
I love it

Thankful
Prouder
Stronger
Open
Here
noelle Oct 12
it's not that i have more reasons to die,
it's that i have less reasons to live.

at this point,
why am i even trying?
I feel like if I were to pick out life choices, it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

Beside me stood a young oak.
Although I'm looking at him,
he swirled his branches
and his body cracked
to encourage me to enjoy the leaves falling
that would drop out —
in the midday of October.

I picked the book,
thoroughly flipping the pages
while I lick my lips
tuck my hair out;
peered on the white sandy sky.
Lit up the spark in my heaving chest —
in beneath those pages.

I wonder, though,
is life all inside the book?
While I flip through the portal,
why do I keep on walking
the same road
if an anonymous poet
wrote in his book
that a man shall not follow
one's path?
But their beliefs and energy
that goes beyond
and falls in deep?

Then a dead crow suddenly
rocked its way through me
while its side bitten and decaying,
the distinction I have with its life,
brought me back to these pages —
and words scrambled;
alive and beautiful.

I feel like if I were to pick out life choices, it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

At midday in October, once, there was a girl. Her hair swayed and leaves rushing to get her attention — the little bookish girl was alive again for a while.
We've all been dreaming to feel and live like this. Now, read that book and wander. Wander through those portals and write.
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