My Life

I am of glass

shaped into a

deceiving form

forever destined

to break.

Pain.

Overwhelmed. Crushed. Betrayed.

Lies. Hatred. Tears.

No forgiveness. No more chances.

Pain. Always pain.

Why does life have to hurt so badly?

People say it is only temporary, but it feels so constant. People will say that it’s just a rut, that everyone falls down sometimes… But why’s it feel like nothing has ever gone right in my life? This is not a rut. My life has been a rut. What’s the point? Why keep trying for something which won’t ever come?

You’ll think, “Oh no, just keep on going, things’ll get better!” But isn’t that what you said last time? And the time before that? Or maybe you’re not even here anymore, whoever you are. Why can’t good people ever catch a fucking break? Instead, life simply rolls on; one sad day followed by another,  each of them full of relentless pain. More and more and more and more.

I hope that people who do fucked up things live in misery for the rest of their lives.

Life is pain… And I don’t want it anymore.

I stare at my laptop screen wondering, what will this blank page turn into? Will it be art? No. But assuredly, it will be truth? Probably not, I respond. Questions raised by the heart, and answered by the mind. Are the two not connected?

I sit between two magnets. The two of them equadistance away from me, neither with a stronger magnetic attraction. So I rest between, constantly pulled in two directions but never capable of moving to either side. A magnet of the soul. A magnet of the mind. One pulling for love, seeking joy and happiness, the other pushing me away, attempting to use logic and reason to guide my decision. But is this not the writing of us all? Constantly pushed and pulled in every direction til we’re so battered and torn and sore and hurt that we simply fall onto whichever side happens to be pulling us in at that moment?

I am a writer of the mind,

I am a poet of the soul .

But why? What is the point?

She told me she loved me, but how can I trust? Words are but the dim representation of the feelings which reside in the soul. Words cloud, taint, and destroy… But do they not clarify, perfect, and construct as well? Words are the boards and metal of the mind. They piece together the buildings which are erected in front of us, shedding beauty, casting warmth, and protecting us. Do we need protection, after-all? And are they not the very same resources which are used to build the vehicles which shatter our creations to the ground?

So how do we know? We do not.

So what about actions? Are they an accurate representation of the way a person feels, thinks, and what they desire? No, they are not either. Each of us are simply actors cast for the play called “Life,” nothing truthful or real, simply imitations and deceit. Actions contradict, some of love, some of hate; and surely, one cannot feel both radical emotions for the same individual, at least not true love, or true hate.

But alas, maybe that is the answer; none of it is true. Maybe nothing is true at all.

I envy those, lying in graves,

underneath cold tombstones,

Nothing but a scattered pile of bones,

Finally cured of heartbreak.

And slowly, but surely,

All love turns to lust.

Ashes stay ashes, bones turn to dust,

And we feel nothing.

Ah! To be without emotion!

Hate and love blend into one,

Two becomes one, one becomes none;

And all becomes nothing.

How I long to feel nothing.

The door to her room opens, she’s wearing an over sized t-shirt with a loose fitting pair of jeans. Her hair is untidy and unkept. She looks into my eyes and I see a smile trying to break through the barrier of her lips, but she restrains it and instead lets off a small, cute, grin. How can someone look so beautiful in such a state? I look down at myself; a button up-shirt, a supporting v-neck underneath, a pair of dark skinny jeans, a pair of white Vans worn to emphasize the dark the color focus, and black socks which contrast the shoes. Every one of my outfits carefully meticulously purchased, each item worn for a specific reason; yet still, every time I am standing next to her I feel so under-dressed. How? Her natural beauty figuratively undercuts my superficial fashion sense.

I look toward her grin and feel a smile parting my lips. That grin, those eyes, her face… How can someone be so wonderful, yet at the same time so oblivious to their own perfection? I am in awe, I am silenced, I am enchanted. And to think she lives so close now… For so long separated by miles and miles of road, but somehow drawn together to the same city, the same school, the same path of life. It’s amazing to me that two people from such inverse backgrounds can find one another.

We sit on her bed and talk, watch television, discuss our writing and our lives. I find myself slowly but surely giving into happiness; a happiness I’ve been dying to grasp onto for so many years. A happiness which has slowly evolved into a necessity rather than a want, an ultimatum rather than a impulsive desire.

I constantly find myself looking into her, my mind empty of anything but this moment, and I smile. She teases me for staring, I apologize and look down, trying to hide the embarrassment from my face. But how could I look at anything else? The night passes on, and each minute I feel closer to her. I learn, I try to understand, and most importantly, I smile.

It is always those days in which you do nothing together that you learn the most about the other person; it is those days which promote strong feelings and bonds. Cute dates are nice, of course, but there is nothing which can even begin to compare to the power of a night spent together doing nothing but being with each other.

I used to worry about being cute, a voice would echo in my mind, bouncing up from my broken heart, “You’re just not cute enough…” and I would feel it cracking in hundreds of different places. I felt a shell lost in the thoughtless, tossing sea. The pain was incomprehensible. But now I get it, now I accept it.

It is not that I did not do cute things, it is that she could not understand what true cuteness was. It is not poking someone in the stomach, not waiting for them to finish the last bite of food, but being there. Those are mere habits, but none of them show the way a person truly feels. True cuteness is trying to understand and trying to help, it is the nights like these which are spent talking, laughing, wanting, it is being happier doing nothing with that person than doing anything with anyone else, and lastly, it’s being there for someone.

Being cute is not doing stupid little things nor participating in futile routines, but being honest, sincere, and devoted. It is appreciating someone sending you flowers for no reason, it is understanding the love it takes for someone to write and send a poem, it is knowing that the other person would do anything for you in a heartbeat, it’s the way they overlook your imperfections and instead turn them into the things which make you perfect. It is the way they tell you they love you, the way they look at you like you’re their savior, the way they tell you all of the little things they love about you, and the way you know they mean them. That is what true cuteness is, some people are just too blind to see it.

I look toward her smiling, and I speak with sincerity. I hope that when my eyes wake up from this perfect dream, it doesn’t end.

Please don’t end, please don’t end…

I feel my inanition rising as I wait for a text I’m sure will not come. An empty spirit, a stripped soul, and a raped heart. So many let downs, so much pain, so little forgiveness, and the undeniable realization of failure. How can one strive for success with so little hope?

My room is my cell, my skull an assylum, and are they so different after-all?

So little to live for and even fewer reasons to smile. But there is some- that small fraction of what could be. There is Saturday; which proposes the potential for a hand to hold, two lips to desire, and a soul to strive for.

Why is it that happiness is the one thing each of strive for in life, but so few of us find?

My 3.8GPA projects itself into my mind. I glance over toward a Biological Anthropology test, 98%. Toward a World History test, 95%. Toward a paper for Political and Social Philosophy- A. Toward an American Lit paper- A. Toward a self-test on life, joy, and happiness- F.

I shut my eyes and go to sleep, dreaming of something better.

The fog blows in, moving with the wind,

The scenery is hard to see;

Mountains and rivers all hidden by fog-

The fog’s inside of me.

The man stumbles with his keys as he struggles to get one into the keyhole. He left home for a week on a business trip, and this was his first time back. His frozen fingers fumbled with the keys, he had gotten used to the nice Californian weather on his trip, and had forgotten the bad aspects to living in the mountains. He remembered as soon as he stepped out of his car; the cold night air blew across his face, slapping him like a sheet of ice. “There’s no place like home,” he thought to himself as he looked out at the four feet of snow which covered his yard.

His key slid in and he turned the doorknob, the brass chilled him to the depth of his marrow. He flipped a light switch as he pulled his suitcase through the door. He hated trips like that, but at least he had a few days off to spend with his wife. The house seemed empty, pictures were taken down and books had been stripped from the shelf. The very soul of the house felt away. He walked down his hallway, looked on his sheet stripped bed, and saw a note instead of a wife.

And so he wept.

Hours passed, the snow began to fall onto the house as if each snowflake was a peice of the man’s soul, each one frozen and fluttering away as it falls onto the ground. It fell and it fell, for hours upon hours, and he wept and he wept, for hours upon hours. Morning came around, but he did not know. No light was let in through the snow covered windows.

The man got up, his weary body threatening to collapse under the pressure. He tried to flip on a lightswitch, but nothing was emitted from the bulbs. He glanced at his alarm clock and saw it was also off. The power must have went out, he thought to himself.

So he found a flashlight and went through his closet, searching for the box of wedding pictures and vacations his wife and him kept together. He grabbed the box, and climbed back onto his empty bed. He looked at each one, trying to figure out what could have went wrong. He saw their smiling faces, the joy of their wedding, the bliss of their first child, and he felt lost.

All the while, the snow fell, and fell, and fell. And continued for 3 days, all the while the man did not leave his bed but to go to the bathroom.

The snow had covered his house, but he did not care. It had snowed feet above the house, his heater stopped working due to frozen pipes, and the air in the house was getting thin. He thought it was just him dying of a broken heart. So he went on, mourning, weeping, reflecting, and hating life.

The home, being fairly aged, had a very weak roof. Certain parts of the home had wood which had been not only destroyed by termites in the summer, but had begun to rot from the inside out. Slowly, various chunks of the wood began to cave in, and snow fell into the house. With time, there was snow falling in nearly every room. Without a heater, the coldness combined with the thin air, and penetrated the man. But he thought that maybe this is what it felt like to die from a broken heart. So he sat, with a flashlight, looking at his wife’s smiling face.

Slowly, he began to lose oxygen at the same time the snow had frozen him past the point of shivering. He could hardly move, so his eyes remained on the pictures. The beat of his chest slowed as his heart frosted over. The tears on his face froze and remained as tiny frozen droplets forever stuck to his face, but he did not know. He stared at the pictures as the blood in his veins diminished its flow. And so, drawing his final breath, the man thought to himself, so this is what it feels like to die of a broken heart, and he closed his tear stained eyes forever.

Help-

i fell down again

the floor feels

so familiar-

Help.

Pain-

i am Hurt again

god this feels

so familiar-

Pain

Lost-

Where Am I again?

why’s this feel

so familiar?

Lost.

Hurt-

and Alone again

it all feels

so Unbearable…

why?

I watch as her feet dance along the sidewalk; the soles of her shoes gently lifting into the air, each movement swift and angelic. She is beautiful and I am enraptured by her grace. Her presence feels almost omniscient, it is as if she is there and here all at the same time. She moves in a way where I can feel her, my eyes serving as my minds hands, gently caressing her soft skin as I run my fingertips along her naked back. She continues to two step through my mind, I feel peace, joy, and happiness.

Her lips open and expose a smile, much like the sun slowly lifts itself from behind a mountain at dawn, I feel the sunlight of her smile wrap around my body like a blanket. I feel a chill run along my spine and a smile overwhelm my face. A soft breeze catches her scent and carries it through my nostrils, it elates my spirits and I feel the smell flow throughout my body.

I dream of her lips and making love. Two souls intertwined, the air surrounding us inebriates me. Her lips, her breath, and the taste of her skin intoxicate me. It lifts me up as our bodies become one. The tips of my fingers run through her hair. She stares through my eyes and I feel her caressing my soul.

I dream of love.