The years when I was a child were filled with a infinite range of emotions.
Emotions so strong it felt I could move mountains, land, and even oceans.
My childhood was full of tears and fun.
I know now I am not the only one.
I remember exploring the country side with friends.
When we were older we drifted apart and the pain never ends.
I remember all the cartoons we watched.
I remember birthdays, Christmas, and the toys that were brought.
I remember all the pets we had.
I remember the days when I was happy or sad.
When I think about it I am mad.
The days I have now are filled with sorrow and grief from that.
Though my childhood still remains.
I should be glad that I am alive, please relieve these restraints.
Every day I am reminded of the past.
Hopefully I relieve the pain at last.
I am not proud at what I have become.
Maybe now the dreams of my love.
My friends and family I will follow them.
With their guidance I will swallow them.
I hope to never remember the past so angered.
For some, hope for the future is endangered.
My advice is to find something you are good at doing.
Run for the future and never look back unless it is wrong you are pursuing.
I will keep the past pain and hardship near.
My pain in my heart is stored right here.

Perceptions of identity in internal conflict grow by the shared fear of being disproven.

Resistance, in the form of denial, turns into desperation and anxiety before it reluctantly ceases.

But sometimes it happens during the mental battle and human hardship that the most pressured of these perceptions fires a distress-rocket out of its protective trench.

Something instinctual in man appeals, and if need be demand an opportunity to express what has happened.

The signal often depicts itself in ways of expression already chosen at birth, without regard to the self-image's rigorous, albeit nervous defense.

And so the poet dictates,

the artist sings,

regardless if one never dared before, one dares now.

The feelings are preserved long after the battle has passed,  
thoughts fade out of memory,
lost in one of the eternally sealed archives of the organism.

Yet the fragment that made it out is a beautiful remnant, an undeniable testimony that a creation of the soul can leave man.

Too slow in this fast-paced world
Too dumb among the smart people
Too simple yet living in complications
Am I bound to be like this?
Can I even cope up?

It's hard to say if the climb was worth it

I know they push and press convincingly that
the climb is always worth it, but is it really?
I am left scraped up and battered
from all the boulders
and the wolves
and all the **** thorns
and left wondering if I really made it out better on the other side

There's always another mountain

And is it worth it?
To what end do we climb?
To what purpose do we trudge tirelessly up the mountainside,
wondering when we will reach the top?
I have reached the top many times
And there is always another **** mountain to climb
on the other side

So it's hard to say if the climb was worth it

And that is not to say I am done climbing
Though I question, my body falls back into the rhythm of the climb
ignores the scrapes and bruises
ignores the way the wolves nip at my heels
because I too always feel there is victory at the top
believe the nicks come with the climb
believe that if I just reach the top, then I can be free

But there's always another mountain

And what did I gain more than experience?
More than scars, and disappointment
Does it even matter that I have beaten the mountain
if nothing ever changes but my own weariness?
It is insanity, the very climb we repeat
over and over
as if there will ever be a different outcome

It's hard to say if the climb was worth it

At the edge of the wood
And draw maps of what we believe
Our anatomies will look like
Before and after the war

Sounds, spoken of my mind,
   Impulsive,
Yet, still overthought.

I never know what to say,
   But always know just how to say it.

I'm quite skilled,
   In the art of scaring you away,
With the words I didn't know how to say.

Stuck in this space of mind,
   That hides me from the correct answer,
Forced to find the long way around.

For the sake to not make a fool of myself,
   I just have to remember...

I Have the Write to Remain Silent

~Robert van Lingen

Sometimes it’s hard to tell which one is the actual dream
Whether it’s the mind that’s open
Or the eyes
There’s tribulation
Everything is easier that way
When you’re constantly under fire, things tend to resolve themselves
All you have to do is maintain