I realize I am too compassionate;
I feel everything at a 100% rate,
and I loathe it so much.
Why do they come on so strong all the time;
it mentally drains me.
I am destined to die early;
I can't see myself living past my mid-thirties.
I learn how to accept death as it is,
and I am slowly learning how to let go.
I want to cry, I want to scream;
I want to voice out this indecipherable torment inside of me.
But no one will understand,
and no one will know;
this mask of mine can't be taken off.
It is what I desire,
yet I want to scream the truth out to the world;
my alternating flow of thoughts,
my constant battle;
it goes down with me to the grave.
This happiness is an illusion;
There's a second mind that takes over,
and blocks away all of the hopelessness.
It brings forth a temporary elation,
a nonchalance,
a pretentious ease.
Is this better?
Does it make me better?
Or does this delude me to the point
where I become more destructive
and cause more harm than cure?
Why does my mind run so much?
Why does this version of me exist?
Because I am born empathetic.
Because I am human.
Because I hold a great understanding of myself,
and a greater awareness of how I am.
But not behind in the how it came to be.
No one holds the answer, and I am forever left with questioning all these endless why's and how's.
Everything else is left unanswered
perhaps until the day I die.
— Y.H.
the end of the tunnel,
gentle fervor.
my mind drifts sometimes
as though it's sinking deep into the abyss of water
sometimes i'm afraid it sinks so far
that it never comes back up to the surface again
that i would never see the light another time
but maybe there never was a light
and i've been sinking all this while
further, and further
and the sight of light was only once in a dream
(c) Y.H.
