Uncertainty

Avoidance of any concept past today,
As today’s burdens are intoxicating enough to process.
No matter what I finish,
There will always be something left undone,
Some reason I am not perfect.
Some reason why I cannot live fully yet,
And by live fully I mean breathe without holding my breath
For what is coming.
It is not a good feeling,
To keep sustaining it for years.
I keep thinking, one more year, and I will know.
I will be safe from the uncertainty that haunts me.
And every year,
Things so change,
That I step further from the coast into the ocean.
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Non-Poetic Rant from the Armchair: “Not Saving the World”

It’s hard for me to figure out what I want to do with my life because
I want to participate in normality
And that tends to encompass the majority of things
I don’t want to fight for:
Grades and jobs that entail
Bending over backwards to show people my worth.
I don’t want to be under-worked and underpaid and underestimated because of my age.
I want to be respected as a human, with ideas.
That seems like decades from now, possibly.
But what ridiculous thing can I do if I choose to run against the system?
It all amounts to shame.

What if I don’t want to solve the world’s problems?
What if I just want to be, because everything is essentially meaningless anyway,
Except for the joy of people, and even that’s temporary to their existence.
Saving the world is such a reckless idea.
Who said the world needs to be saved?
What said it can be?  Continue reading Non-Poetic Rant from the Armchair: “Not Saving the World”

“Art…”

Art,
My sweet devil,
Save me.
I’ve
Gotten so comfortable with falling apart.

Emptiness,
Like the dried up stream,
I run from.
At times I’m fooled.
The stream is still dry.

Love,
A quest to find some spark,
Somewhere,
Some life.
My loving tears
Can’t turn a wasteland to a park.

Passion,
What is it?
Books, songs, dances,
I see nothing.
Sometimes so foreign,
Just like laughing.

Purpose?
I’ve erased them.
Nothing really worth it.
No difference can be made.
Living to live,
To what?

Continue reading “Art…”

“Confessions, Part I”

My mouth does not yet taste of wrong,
But I can smell it from afar.
Our lips have yet to touch,
But I’ll hear your heart break before long.

My curiosity carries me like the sea,
Away to islands of unknown,
But it might push me into the ocean floor,
Alone and wounded as can be.

Fleeting moments, forbidden things,
Worse yet is, you want them too.
With my yet remaining conscience,
I’m ruining both of our sweet whims.

Changing friendships is the deadliest of things.
But who am to declare sins?
I wasn’t born to be an angel;
Let our odd story begin.