This is Breaking Down

I want to write something to change my own life. Nothing I’ve written has been for anyone else. I want praise. I want meaning. I want someone to notice me. I want some one to say I’ve been there. To say they understand what it’s like to be like me. Its all about I, My, Mine, and Me. I’m a selfish asshole who wants people to care, but doesn’t have time to care about anyone else. I want to say here, “I wasn’t always this person”, but that is a lie. Was I ever nice for anyone but me? Was God ever real or just a vise? Did I care only when it mattered to me? Convenience. A show. A fake. Me.

I’m a pretender. A type of person I shit on without realizing that person is me. I can blame life, people, circumstance, or fate; but in the end I’m to blame. I don’t finish anything, I just exist. I hate existing. Life isn’t suppose to be hard. It’s not suppose to be complicated. Everyone else does it, but I fuck it up. My whole life I’ve been waiting for something big, but never doing anything big. I’ve lost touch with so many people, and I only see how it effects me. Because I’m a selfish piece of shit.

Megan, the first girl I obsessed over. Is it where I fucked up? Obsession not confidence? A shy introvert who thinks having morals actually matters. A fucking loser who couldn’t talk to girls. I fucking hate that guy. I hate him, but now I’m this man. Fucking broken. A wreck. Not some wreck you can’t turn away from, but one that has been there so long you don’t even notice it anymore. Just junk on the side of the road.

What do I need? Maybe a new question.

For all who read this. Never become me.

Death’s Parade(Part two)

With that said, the parade came to a stop,

Because Death now knows someone still has a heart.

A heart, that in the dying streets did not rot,

And that fear could not tear apart.

As I looked all around,

I saw the marching skeletons fall to pieces on the ground.

No more did I hear the soft moans or the low sounds,

Or see the crowd’s faces aglow with frowns.

So I grabbed the hand of my dear,

And said we now may freely leave here.

As I started to to lead her ahead,

A noise arose from what was left of the marching dead,

Even from the broken, tortured souls.

Who started appearing from the dim-lit alleys and holes

At first, It was almost impossible to hear,

Then it became quite clear,

They were giving us a cheer.

Then I noticed Death, this town’s abuser, had disappeared.

Finally, as we walked to the end of the street,

We could feel new life in the drums under our feet.

With their now deafening beat,

They sounded the victory in Death’s defeat.

For the first time, I heard the tortured soul’s trumpets blow.

Because with me, Death’s rein of sorrow and sadness would go.

Even with all this noise around me,

Only the girl standing beside me could I see.

For everything else had been a blur,

Because the only reason I had ever came here, was for her.

The Wait

Read.

Seen.

Opened.

They are all a partial answer, but the reply is the full truth. Whether that someone is going to respond to keep the conversation going or find out more about you is what you await. What do we fear in this truth? A brief response, or worse no response. What do we hope for? Questions that show interest in us or just jovial conversation. The fear or hope decides whether it was worth the wait.

Read.

Seen.

Opened.

Forget them all. Read a book. See a movie. Open yourself up. Don’t let the wait control you. You can control your wait. That is the truth.