I was told in grade school that diamonds are made of coal, that immense immeasurable pressure alone would give us what we want.
What if my lattice structure the inner composition of my being was imperfect? Would I not collapse my core rupture and my remains combust leaving behind nothing to remember my existence?
I heard that the way these jewels are polished was to throw them into a vessel with a thousand little pebbles to grind the the surfaces smooth.
The layers eroded away, do they mean nothing? Are they inconsequential? A burden to our respective existence?
I believed that I was someone special, hidden gem in the rough all I have to do is trust that I can be anything.
Now I know that I may not be out of the ordinary. That I can not be anything I want to be. I can dream I can achieve I can discover I can live, but of all the things in the world I cannot be a diamond.
I have been once before this told that the true meaning of insane was to repeat any result and not have expected the same
and despite all that here i am with my head in shock and shambles too fast, too soon, in love again so much for learning from gambles
whatever i was meant to be mature or yet another farce oh torture and its parities i fear i must with reason part
shall i long for proximity or pine for needy attention become nuisance implicitly face certain, solemn rejection
or should i now hope not at all bury myself in burning pain of misery henceforth recall and enter a state of insane?
i am not a blithering fool i know that lasting love takes time that feelings like rain drops will pool that mind and heart slowly align
yet of no matter what i think trying truly to go to bed i know i will not sleep a wink because you're stuck inside my head
im just trying desperately trying to get this out. for those of you who know this immature, spontaneous feeling, i hope youll forgive the cheesiness. at the very least, if it doesnt end well for me, i promise to write about pizza.
People are always curious about why I’m a cynic. There is never a reason to be; a cynic doubts without reservation. Though in some sense a follower of pragmatism, one sees so little. There is no beauty in the world, because all beauty is a construct of perception. I’ve been cynical for long enough (I hope) that I can speak for my version. It’s simple. Step 1) Take a critic. Step 2) Define them: someone who prioritizes the flaws above any other characteristics in a subject matter. Step 3) Put them through hours of mental torture and sadness. Step 4) Shoot them in the foot for no apparent reason. Congratulations, you have successfully evolved a critic into a cynic. To all the people who have been a victim of my cynicism, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to impress my own misfortunes upon you, I just got rejected. I hope you understand.
Maybe I love too easily. Maybe that’s why I have felt the sorrow of “so close and yet so far” one too many times. Every time, I tell myself it will be the last time. And every time, I still break to pieces. Within this shell hides a sensitive hermit crab, dead without shelter. Unrequited love is the pair of satanic tweezers that unleashes the **** of nakedness. I hate it. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. I’ll be alright. I’ll live another day, fight another fight. It’s. Just. So. Hard. It’s like the worst disappointment in the world has the behavioral traits of a moth. Why do I fall so easily each and every single time? Am I a fool? Is fool just another name for a hopeless romantic?
The physical symptoms are unmistakable. The tightening of the chest. The quickness of breath. The mental longing that doesn’t go away, that doesn’t falter or get distracted. This is what love is at the very surface, but man is it hard to control. It’s as if everything else in the universe suddenly took a plunge in stock value and the only thing worth investing any amount of time in was that person. I don’t know who it might be for you. For me, it’s a girl. For me, it’s someone I’d like to spend the rest of my days with, the rest of time with if possible. It is someone I would die for, and more importantly, someone I would live for. Sue me. Martyr me for the cheesiness I’m spewing. That doesn’t matter. Literally nothing else does. It means something, it means I’m human. Above the hopeless expanse of responsibilities and tasks exists still a space in my soul for someone else. Well, to lose that is to be human, too, I guess.
seemingly out of nowhere it takes form, in the shape of a sharp comment a rough touch, a raised voice the embodiment of entropy disregarding the fragile peace of sanity surges with the strength of an emotional riptide threatening to drag me into its tumultuous depths
my avatars left formless a terror to loved ones like wild fire, without restraints burning the rope bridges of relationships ever consuming until I'm left gazing at what I have lost a lonely recovery amid the ashes of regret my soul screams "I had a bad day"