Will

For many moments I sat waiting,
So adept at standing still;
So certain all worth chasing
Boiled down to just some time to kill.

But all I’ve lived was just prefacing,
Life a writer with a lethargic quill;
Maybe we’re on to demonstrating
That even characters can have a will.

Frayed

I am tired of tomorrow;
I am clinging to today,
But not because I wish to borrow
One more hour so that I can stay.

I merely have no wish to be there,
To have to face another day
When there is nothing here that I should fear
And yet, still I feel my life is frayed.

Guide

I don’t know how I’m supposed to be;
I never had a guide.
The person who was supposed to be
Learned to keep it all inside.
She lived rather a lot like me,
Never feeling like enough;
And now demands increase exponentially,
And she’s feeling like she’s had enough.
She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to be;
She never had a guide.
And now what are we supposed to be,
When we keep it all inside?

Letter Without Address

Eliza wrote about how she has a dream of having a collection of letters from a bunch of different people, sort of open letters to anyone who might be struggling with suicidal thoughts. Letters without address, meant for anyone who needs them. I don’t know if this qualifies — I’m definitely no Eliza — but…

***

To whoever you are, whatever you’ve done:

I dance with fire. I dance, and everyone around me burns trying to drag me away from the flame. No matter how cold they get, or how many buckets of water they try to bring, often it just makes the flame seem warmer, that much more enticing. The more they try, the more of a failure I realize that I am. And I can’t escape the fact that if I just stepped into the fire, then they wouldn’t be rushing to and fro, worrying. I can’t help but wonder if all I am is a burden… Or maybe even a monster. I don’t know about you, but as for me, I’ve gotten very good at using people. I’m not good at much else; but you don’t have to be if you know the right things to say.

It scares me sometimes. And at every encouragement, every eager entreaty, every assurance that yes, I am worth it — at every one, I wonder. Do they know? Can they? If they can’t see the monster inside, the pathetic little beast that I am, how can they pass any kind of fair judgement? And often, I’ll smile at the well wishes, shake my head, and then stash them away in that deep, deep place in my heart where bright things still dare to live, but so rarely dare to come out. I think a part of me is hoping that if I save up enough of those, I’ll be able to afford a highway between that bright place, and the world outside.

Maybe whoever’s reading this can beat me to it. Whatever kindness I have, is yours. Death is always there. Life? Not so much. Give Life a chance to prove you wrong. Give others a chance to make their own choices — yes, even about you and your worth. If they hate you, let them hate you. If they love you, let them love you. And if you’re completely alone, then forget about yourself for a moment; Be for someone else what you always wished someone could be for you.

And maybe, embrace a platitude or two.

Good luck

Folly

My verse affords me not
The magic of transformation;
Bland are all my thoughts,
And every word’s a shallow imitation:
A fine echo of a troubled mind;
One confused, a little tired,
Craving a warmth it cannot hope to find —
Will not hope to find, for such is mired
In mistakes that scar like fire,
And to guard against with cold
Is the only defense this child knows
To keep from growing old.

Mistakes

Today I’m sick of villains

Nor do heroes have a place

So often have I been

Nothing but a shifting face

But lately have I seen

Not everything escapes

A world where there’s just people,

Whatever their mistakes.

Realization

I’ve looked so long for a prince,
But I was longing for a friend;
I’ve watched the sun set from my tower,
But I was watching for a beginning, not an end.

I’ve been waiting for someone to throw me a rope,
But what I wanted was someone waiting for me to climb down;
I’ve been wishing for someone to make me smile,
But my best wish is for someone to be there even when I frown.

What is one to do?

What is one to do
When every word is a knife,
Every masquerade of normalcy
A bag over the head?
What is one to do
When what should be a life
Is just a pretence born of uncertainty,
And every day is just another day of the dead?

What is one to do
When just the word of “trying”
Reminds me of every infant rebellion,
Every longing quick put down?
What is one to do
When all unbegins with crying,
And the little steps that would have been
Sink into the sand and drown?