I can’t begin
Its hurts too much
The pain of this ending erases every grain of my love
My ability to care is gone
But I will endure
I turn away and walk with purpose to my new life
I am not whole, I have cracks in every joint
But I will live on
I will not forget you
For I will not allow your maltreatment of my spirit to prevail
But I will live on
The hurt will make me feel,
I know I am alive
I will not cry for mercy
I have no tears for you
If you were hurt, I would walk away never noticing the speck that is you.
I will endure and move on

I have a purpose
I am something
I am supposed to be here
What will happen when my purpose disappears?
What will happen when I’m no longer ripe?
What will become of me when I’m discarded in the dirt?
Once a blossom
Now I’m nothing more
Nothing more than the hole my purpose once filled
Nothing more than what made me feel real
What once made me feel real is now providing tangibility to another
A girl I never was
A girl you write sonnets about
A girl you would wage war for
A girl that is so effortlessly magic
A girl that you would wait for, no matter how many years passed
A girl that makes you feel real
Why can’t I be her?
Why don’t I make you feel real?
What is my purpose if not to heal?
What is my purpose?
For a brief second, I become real
I become seen
The person across is looking at me
That second is gone
What will happen when my purpose disappears?
How could I win if there’s nothing within?
How could I win when I’m undeserving?
How could I win when I indulge my sins?
How could I win if there’s no purpose I’m serving?
I had a purpose
I was something

“Where is it I must go?”,
I ask my mirror’s reflection
Is there truly something missing,
Or do I miss imperfection?
I’ve yet to wander far enough
To dull my soul’s reverberations

My body, a holy temple fueled by resounding purpose

GONGG…..GONGG…..GONGG…..

Do I truly know my calling,
Or is my longing just a comfort?
If I am grateful for my life,
Should I worry time is too short
To spend any of my days
Without some type of progress to report?

I worry I am drifting asleep. I need to wake up before it’s too late

GONGG…..GONGG…..

What if I gave it up?
I fear it might end really bad
Would the universe reject me
And crumble everything I had,
Make sure that I was forced
To fulfill some sort of soul contract?

If I knew which one was my opponent, I could be prepared to fight

GONGG…..

I wonder, will I ever make it?
Is there even an “it” to make?
If there is something I desire,
Then is it something I will create?
Do I focus on my blessings
Or on a treasure that might be fake?

I ask for a sign that I am doing the right thing

…..

bap·​tism: an act, experience, or ordeal by which one is purified, sanctified, initiated, or named.

floating in the vacuous flow of time -
endless whispers and murmurs,
trying to figure out which thoughts are mine,
and which thoughts are planted by others.

overwhelmed by the idea of being perceived.
to relinquish control or to take control?
we are nothing but one individual
in the sea of billions.

who's to say that this is worth our time?
who's to say that we have purpose?
i need a baptism to purify, to sanctify, to initiate, to name myself.
to find purpose in this ocean of nothingness.

If you ask who this is,
It's not important.
That a man has a name,
What is its purpose
But recognition?
I don't care about the hate,
But I don't want praise-
Yet, I would hate to leave you in confusion.
The double edged knife,
When the answers hurt us both.
Perhaps it's better not knowing.

Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited,
Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I
Has willed and meted me the tears I've shed,
I clench my fist and shake it at the sky

And at the vengeful God who hammers me,
Delivering the blows that break my brain;
The God who finds his deepest ecstasy
In violencing my life with blinding pain;

Who laughs and says, "Thou suffering thing, declare
If thou hast understanding: Who hath laid
The measures of the earth's foundations?  Where
O where wast thou, O man, whenas I made
The cloud the garment of the sea?  How dare
Thou, foolish man, thy maker to upbraid?"

O Lord, I am thy workmanship;
     And shall the *** of clay
     Unto the potter say,
Dash me to dust, for I've a chip?
                              Nay.

Perhaps the potter uses scraps
     For purposes the ***
     Would likely like a lot
If he but knew.  Perhaps.  Perhaps
                              Not.