Applauds on resilience
Persistence and stubbornness
Born to make, to create
Sees all in which nothing should exist
Imagine being that
Potential is stored inside me
Waiting but yet begging to be let out
I starve myself my laziness
What’s of all the effort if all I get is strife?
Laugh at me all you want
Is what you love worth the pain of caring?
Knowing others will always be above you
I’m so tired
I shot myself short before I could even begin

Someone told me "𝕓𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕗".
But what if being kind to yourself is being unkind to others?
what if a little care to yourself is too much selfishness to them?
I know, I know you'll tell me to not care...but how can I not?
when the whole world is just too human. It confuses me.

I use to not care at all, and be the free spirited person I was.
That changed when I tried to be less human. I told myself...
"being less human is making mankind better than it is".
For humans are no different from disasters... you don't know how much it'll cost, you just hope for a less aggravate outcome.

But for now, I am still far from being less human...
because I care, I care about who's who and what will.

No worries, I'll get there... "the ones who cannot abandoned the past won't be able to make a difference" yes I heard you...

My heart feels heavy
My pulse burns
My head aches

I want freedom
I want peace
I want love
I feel these so deeply in my being
But I’m so confused
I’m so conflicted
And all those who would’ve helped me have gone
I’ve grown distant from once-trusted mentors
I don’t know where to find answers
Where to find help
Something inside me screams an answer
That I don’t want to hear

Or perhaps rather...
It is a still, small voice

The night is cloudy and the stars don't shine,
The raindrops on the window are illuminated by the cold street light.
Perhaps I would be able to hear the roaring wind
but it is silenced by the tick tock of the clock on the wall.

Maybe, maybe I will write again,
Maybe, maybe I will learn to play a happy tune,
One day I'll forget elegies
And stop making these melacholy effigies

I don't really like rhyming now,
They sound too happy and are sometimes cheap.
I rather write to my poems and say, "Thou
art my biggest mystery, you're too shallow. You're too deep."

So in conclusion,
I don't know why I'm writing.
All I know in this confusion
Is that the night is cloudy and the stars don't shine,
The raindrops on the window are illuminated by the cold street light.

The clock is ticking. Tick. Tock.
The people are hollow,
The people are stuffed
leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.

Do what I want...
Oh, what a taunt.
I wish I could.
There's no way I should.

I want to go home
I want to write a book
Sit back on memory foam
In a cozy little nook.

To stay home with my kids
And my wonderful wife
To shut my eyelids
And sleep without strife

I want to talk to the people
Who wander my mind
To sit and slowly pull
And scribe as stories unwind

For my family, I want to care
To give them all they need
And always be there
So they've lives they want to lead.

I just want to function
To not give my all
Just to end in destruction
Not to fall and fall and fall

I want to like the man in the mirror
To not see myself with disgust,
As something lowly, inferior.
I want to be worth your trust

Do what I want...
Oh, what a taunt.
Maybe I should,
But there's no way I could.

Long have I known fog,
his name, a penumbral thought.
Just like all the rest...