Leaves

Have you ever tried to explain the leaves – with their leafy shapes and their leafy hues green?

Turn to the trees, and look for a while – While I hold back tears and a sad smile

Nature is beautiful to me, you see – it allows me to appreciate what it means to be

So fill your lungs with the breeze and let time freeze – allow Mother Nature to embrace you for eternity

And when your eternity passes and you’re in front of your screens, I’ll ask you again to explain the leaves.

Merry Christmas…

~ The dark of night fills me not with absence, but with serenity ~

~ The snow blanketing the ground covers me with my own blanket of tranquility ~

~ The silence is no longer a sign of a barren place, but one filled with familiarity ~

~ The crackle of the fire soothes my mind instantly ~

~ The slumbering mass at my feet is the most wonderful kind of heavy ~

~ Despite every change that has occurred, each room overwhelms me with similarity ~

~ The ghost of you that haunts me now greets me softly ~

~ And my eyes pass over each ornament, each bow, each light of a fairy ~

 

 

…I’m Home.

I Am Not Religious

I gaze out at the universe, and ponder its creator
But I am not religious
I sit in a church, and am overwhelmed by peace
But I am not religious
I choose to pray for those in danger, when times are bad
But I am not religious
I wish for peace and love on this earth, for us to live in harmony
But I am not religious
I have morals, ethics and values I follow
But I am not religious.

Why must everyone be so?
Why must wars start for this concept?

Why can we not simply be?

I believe we all are programmed with a sense of right and wrong
And I’ll never understand why so many chose wrong, or forcefully blind themselves to it.
Would that not be against our Creator that so many swear by?
Did he not give us this ability to choose between good and bad?
I believe this, and still,
I am not religious.

 

Waiting

I waited for him

And he chose her.

 

I waited for her

And she chose him.

 

I waited for him

And he chose me

Only to follow her as she walked by

I continued to wait

And wait

And wait

Some days I wonder if part of me is still waiting.

 

I waited for him

And he chose her.

 

I waited for them

But he chose her

And she chose him

Toying me along all the while.

I still wait for him,

Despite him choosing a different her.

 

I waited for him

I waited for him

Did I have him?

Did he have me?

I never knew

But I got tired of waiting.

So for once I left.

 

And here I am.

So long after deciding no more waiting

But knowing nothing besides how to do so.

I wait

I pine

I hope you’ll realize I’m too afraid

That I don’t know how to approach

That I am so used to assuming that I won’t be wanted,

that I figure you’ll be the same.

All I’ve done is wait.

Why should this time be any different?

And yet I dream of your arms around me, I long for your understanding

My heart sinks when I see you.

 

After all, what appeal is there?

A women…no. A girl.

A girl who doesn’t know herself.

Who doesn’t love herself.

Who doesn’t even know what she does and doesn’t want.

 

Once again I sit here,

Looking

Waiting

Pining

Hoping

Knowing.

 

Knowing that you’ll be just like the rest, and I’ll be left to pine until I leave.

Until I learn to act.

Until I stop waiting.

Publishing?

I have a dilemma here. Say I have a manuscript or two written up, ready to go. What is an aspiring author to do?

Self publish, or find a publisher?

Self publishing, while more expensive, gives me the creative liscense. It also prevents one from having to wait for a publisher to pick them up. It’s much more work, but I wonder if it is worth it in the end.

Publishing, on the other hand, is a waiting game. Waiting for your genre to be popular, waiting for your story to be deemed as readable. Waiting to be good enough. Hoping. Praying. You have less control, but you also have better marketing and such.

So I wonder, you see, which to choose.

Any input?

Fighting

Worthless. Idiot. Pathetic.

No. Those aren’t true. I know those aren’t true. Why am I thinking like this? I thought this was supposed to stop.

Because you’re weak. A waste of air. Can’t even save her own mind.

No. I’m saving my own mind by shutting you up.

I am you.

Like hell you are.

 

For the past year I’ve been fighting.

Some days I almost wish I had ended it, because I know that I can’t now.  I’ve come too far, I have too much work left to do.
But I’m still fighting.

I still have spirals you see. Moments where I hear a voice that is my own, but different. Moments where I fall into the darkest corners of my head and struggle to get out.

You deserve to be alone. People only tolerate you because they pity you, you sorry excuse for a human.

I know, I know. Believe me I know. Why do you think I don’t bother people?

Clearly you do bother people. Everyone you spoke to today. Everyone you pass in the streets. They all know how pointless your existence is, how ugly you are, how utterly naive you are.

I suppose they do, don’t they.

 

The darkness overtakes me. That different voice becomes my own. I curl inward on myself as I stare, unseeing.

 

Useless, insane, silly, disgusting, repulsive, sickening, wretched, imbecile…

I know I know I know.

No one will care for you, not truly. And the people who do would be better off not worrying about you at all.

I know I know I know.

Why not just save them the worry?

I know I know…no…

You were going to do it once.

No…no…no…

The kitchen knife, the speeding car. It’s not like it’s rocket science.

No…no I’m past this.

The residences think they’re suicide proof, why not prove them wrong?

No…that’s a terrible way to think.

Why? Why would anyone care? Why do you not deserve to die.

No!

 

In a moment like that I’m left a shivering mess, disgusted in myself in a whole different way.

Because I am past this. I know that for a fact.

I deserve air. I deserve to live. I have goals. I will see them to the end.

It’s words like these that I have to repeat, over and over again, until I begin to calm. Until that nagging voice that is my own, but different, quietens almost completely, scurrying away like an insect back under its rock.

Until it decides to return.

Until I spiral once more.

Until I’m fighting once again.