As Was

A barren landscape, death has consumed all that once was.

What was once vast jungle, which bore fruit and life.

Is now stripped naked of its beauty, and left to die.

I look around and see as is, but I wish to see as was.

As the short breath of the wind hits my face, reminiscent feelings return to me.

As if I could hear the trickling waters, and feel the grass beneath my feet.

It is so dry, that even the clouds shy away, afraid the shed even a single tear.

But the bones that lie beneath once hid too.

Behind the skin of their owners, beneath the skin of the earth’s crust.

But then they were found.

So then maybe, the clouds may too one day, peak out from their hiding place.

And the earth will bear fruit, and the life which was so scandalously stripped away,

Shall return to its former glory.

And everything that I see as is, I will now see as was.

And everything I once saw as was,

I will now see.

A Million Words

There are a million words in the English Dictionary. But not a single one can tell you, or even

explain the way I feel at home. Nostalgia? Sure. But even when I am here, I feel no sense of

memory, and when I see familiar faces all it brings is pain. So, tell me, why do I long to return to

this home so much. Am I trapped between the two? Am I confused? Perhaps. And if all these

feelings could be combined into one, how should I scream it throughout my lungs, as if to say I

miss this home, but I loathe it at the same time. And while I scream, should I feel happy,

saddened, or even hungry? Or even laugh at the thought of losing this home. I know what I feel. I

feel sick. I feel nauseous. To the point where I want to abandon all my thoughts, all my words,

all my feelings, all my being. And start over. I hate this place I call home. And sometimes I lay

awake at night, and I plead to God. Why this place? If somewhere was to feel at home, why

somewhere where I long to not be? So, tell me, what is this feeling I long to know the name of?

And if I were to be reborn, would I still share the same connections? I hate this place, I hate its

lack of order, I hate the people who so cautiously avoided me, roaming free without a care as to

who they may harm. I hate the boring fields of green. I hate the lack of color and the feeling of

watching everything I know and love shift into something it’s not. And when I see the sun, I am

reminded of a place elsewhere. So, tell me, is this home? Is this the place I long to stay? No. I

want out. So, tell me, why when I leave, the tears in my eyes feel dry, as if no thoughts or

feelings could express my emptiness. A million words. And not I single one can tell.

How much I truly love this place.

The Cycle

Wake, eat, sleep.

Over and over, again and again. Who am I doing this for? Whose smile do I long to see at the

end?

Wake, eat, sleep.

Is it all worth it to try so hard, that my arms give in, and I fall to the ground?

Wake, eat, sleep.

Whose voice do I hear, begging me to do better, and to be better than I already am. To do better,

than my best. Because my best is not good enough.

Wake, eat, sleep.

I tell myself, that your voice does exist. And to keep trying, but what’s the point in trying if all I

get is no remorse? No one to tell me good job for trying my hardest. Instead I hear that I’m not

good enough, and that I need to be perfect, and to be imperfect, means to be no one. I once

believed that lie. But now I know.

Wake, eat, sleep.

You’re the problem, you’re the leach that tells me there is no point. I used to think it was myself,

but now I know that you were poisoning me all along.

Wake, eat, sleep.

But truly there is no way to get rid of you.

Wake. Eat. Sleep

I’m sorry for not trying hard enough to please you. I am sorry for not being perfect. And I’m

sorry that you’re such a blind, incompetent, worthless, leach. Truly, I pity you. But I pity me the

most.

Wake. Sleep.

And now I know

Wake.

There really is no point.

Sleep.

In listening.

Wake.