Tacenda ➵ poems

introduction

I am in fact a potato.

Not because of the flabby pieces of skin that hangs from underneath my arms and lower stomach but simply because; I am. The fact that I didn't write this under alcohol inebriation is saddening because it further justifies how much I'm bored with my life. And writing pretty much saved me.

Not of boredom but of misery.

Back then when I was in sixth grade, my life was a living hell and if you're reading this right now that just means I have successfully completed elementary and went on to high school.

Still when I had the worst year of my life, no one else understood my "suffering" if that's what you'd call it. I was going through a hard time grasping puberty I don't know. Even my parents gave up on me. They didn't literally, but all they cared about was school and my up coming graduation, they took for granted my feelings.

From there on I learned to handle my mood swings all by myself and either writing or reading makes me forget about my problems. Although at the same time it gives me the chance to vividly express myself into a piece of paper. In a way some fragments of that dilemma will transfer into another host and I could even give more color to it to make it seem more artsy that it already is.

I'm beginning to believe that specific quote from tumblr which said; Darkness makes people Insanely Creative and I think I'm living for it. As petty as it seems, but what the fuck am I supposed to do other than that? Other than vaguely tell readers of how much my head pushes me into a keyboard everytime I'm out of reality, I have nothing else to do but be a disappointment to my parents.

I don't even have dreams anymore and if anyone asks me what my future plans are, all I could see is myself locked inside a mental hospital with paper all over the walls where I would write the untold stories my head kept away.. it's way too dramatic but it was true. And the fact that I wasn't scared of that prediction is just really disappointing. It was the most coherent future I could think about happening in my life. I wasn't good at anything, not even keeping promises to make myself a better person. And I sure as hell don't know if I would be able to keep a decent job with my attitude and intense limerence for sleep.

My childhood was everything I could ask for. However the moment I have entered teenagery; it pretty much all went down hill after that. I got stuck inside the house, depression ate me into plotting to take my own life and people I love went on and slowly murdered me inside. So everytime; I would be walking around, soulless and without a purpose but write the things I know and loved and cared for.

Unlike a potato I wasn't internally living. At first glance it would seem dead and lifelessly frozen, but deep inside it was as exciting as it gets. Meanwhile I'm right here, moving, seemingly alive.. still deep inside I marveled over the idea of one day I'd be dead and everything I had would vanish from my arms. Including this very thing I'm writing. Sure I was terrified of dying in a painful passing, but I wasn't terrified enough to regret wishing for it once I'm there.

Just the idea of it gives a melancholic comfort to my senses and normally people would look at death in a negative way.. I didn't for I have planned to take my own life way too many times now and the only reason I haven't yet is because of the confusion that my head would be stuck on every moment I think about what would happen next if I did.

Dying was easily achieved. I could find a knife right now and stab myself directly where my heart is located to end my misery, but the thing that kept me awake at night is; what then? Will I suddenly find the tunnel of light and fly my way into heaven? Or get sent directly into hell to pay for the sins I have committed while I was alive? Or will it just be endless nothingness so it won't be difficult to fathom the eternity that we'd be gone?

The last one was the most preferable to me, simultaneously it makes me question life even more and how thin the line is between life and death.

If dying was more peaceful than being here right now with a million thoughts crossing our minds and problems persistently dragging us away into melancholia; what are we still doing here?