They laughed. They laughed at me and my poetry, as if I were a comedian. They went though it all, and laughed. I am embarrassed. I am ashamed. I wish I never had feelings. I wish I was never born. They see comedy in my work. I see tragedy in myself.
Love has always been a forlorn hope. ‘Who would ever love me,’, I ask, ‘if I can barely love myself?’ ‘Who would stand up for me,’ I question, ‘if I have trouble even standing up for myself?’ Unrequited love is the most frightening aspect, knowing it’s abundance. I can’t help but feel inadequate, almost incapable.
Things always have to be unnecessarily complicated for me, or at least, they must seem that way. I find it hard to muster enough strength to resolve the issues, it’s just too much work, too much of a burden, so I give up often, usually without ever trying. Everything should be more straightforward.
I can’t sleep. And there’s no one to talk to. No one. No. One. None.
Where do I fall on your board, I wonder? Am I just a pawn to be played? Am I your castle, for escape? Your knight, for solace? Or perhaps, something more, something greater. Perhaps I am your king, one who would fight for you till the very end, till check meets mate. Where do I fall, my queen, in this illogical game of cloaks and daggers, this deadly romance, this charade called love? Where do I fall, I wonder, where ever do I fall?
Why does the rain choose me?
You gave me butterflies, at the mailbox…
If only I could speak my mind and ask the questions I want to hear answered.
People believe in God because they can’t come to terms with the fact that, naturally, nothing meaningful will come from our own meaninglessness.
How can I give life advice, when I don’t even follow it myself? How can I tell someone to find something worth fighting for when I myself have nothing and no one to fight for? How can I tell someone that things will get better, when all I can see, hear, smell, taste, and feel is the rain?
"Any tragedy may seem a comedy when I am with them."