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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. mediocrity at its finest

I allowed myself to grow
To become the person I wish I was,
And I long for the day
When a quick glance at my reflection
Would evolve into a stare
As I look into myself,
But for now,
All I see is a hollow chamber.

I have drained myself
Of motivation to keep
A heavy head high.

I was twelve
when I learned new formulas in math,
that was also the year
that I learned to hate myself.
I was twelve
when I took a blade to a frog in science,
that was also the year
that I took a blade to my skin.
I was twelve
when I was exposed to writing,
that was also the year
that I turned to writing to avoid being exposed.
I was twelve
when I heard that love could heal,
that was also the year
that I became numb.

time does a wretched feat

where it slows down to a crawl

in only my eyes,

and i am forced to watch

an unfortunate series of events

in motions below the tick of a heartbeat

and i am fully aware of it

yet i choose to stare relentlessly

as i feel my insides begin to decay

to nothing.

Senses

Listen sincerely,

to the legato drip

of ink,

that escapes my fingertips,

like the poison

of a venomous reptile,

and watch how it pours

in slow pulses

for it takes an inch of my being

with every last drop,

and hear it echo

against the walls of glass

of a social expectation

that we must abide by,

and see what it truly means

to indulge yourself into an art

that only you can define,

and smell the sweat

induced by hours

of slaving over

a sport,

a play,

a symphony,

or whatever it may be

as long as it pertains to you

and your thoughts alone,

and feel the rush

of daring to touch

what touches you.

I was once proclaimed

as a profound individual

by a young fool

who believed 

the words I bled onto paper

were those that held meaning,

when in reality,

I was simply a damn coward

who hid behind ink

sans voice.

There exists
an absence of warmth
within the walls
of my being—
where once
a boundless fire
of passion resided—
that has now simmered
down to a trickle
of a fading flame.

As we begin to move on

to higher hurdles

that challenge our every conscious thought,

we begin to see a sliver of revelation

in a pit of emptiness

that fuels the daunting task

of finding ourselves.

Feed me lies

that I am something of worth,

that you care,

because all I see

are clouds

of another damn day.

In all my years,

not once have I experienced

such a desire for proximity 

with someone.

That is,

until our gazes met

and it occurred to me 

that I felt differently with you.

And now,

I have reason to explore

the uncharted territory 

that is intimacy. 

You say 

that you love the way

my cheeks redden

and the way 

that my laugh echoes, 

but will you 

still love the way

my hair frizzes

or the way

my eyes flicker with green

when I am consumed 

with the cancer of the mind?

I choose not to understand,

but to see all those around me

who speak freely,

unconcerned with their words.

Who are blind

to the chaos caused.

Who are deaf

to the low cries.

I choose to feel

the vibrations of the words

spoken so vivaciously

and to reciprocate. 

I once put all my faith

Into the stars,

In hopes that if I 

Did as the bright formations said,

I would attain a sense of security,

Yet,

All the seemingly promising shines

Were dull of hope

And I,

I was the fool

Who blindly spun thrice

To the rhythm of an old myth.

Isn’t it funny

To think any of the heartache,

The sleepless nights,

The thoughts consumed with worry,

The tears shed,

The self doubt,

The hours spent in attempt to achieve perfection,

Was ever worth it?

There once was 

A gaping hole

In the cross of my chest;

The mark of a writer

Whose intentions failed

To produce the simple joy

Of self fulfillment.

This hole grew larger

And burned through layers

Of fabric made of soul,

Until I could stand it no longer

And I could not go another day,

Another word,

Without spilling ink.