He was alone.
In a world of life,
No one was there for him.
He had his mind.
He had his heart.
But neither worked.
And his soul just wilted away.
He cried for help,
Internally.
He lived for others,
Externally.
All he ever wanted,
To feel loved.
To feel accepted.
To feel like he belonged.
But he didn't.
What he did feel,
Alone.
Lonely.
Letting go of the only grip on life.
As he hung from the cliff.
He felt his fingers give up.
He felt the pain.
And he felt himself give up.
Hanging on by 5.
As each minute passed by,
His levers kept letting go.
Last minute reached.
And he was scared,
Terrified.
Let go and feel pain,
For 20 seconds.
Or,
Pull up and feel pain,
For indefinite.
What to choose?
What to do?
What to feel?
What to lose?
Drifting away,
In his mind.
He felt emptiness inside.
The shell pretending,
As though he was the happiest.
The soul giving up on life.
Giving up on itself.
He felt his heart,
Beat to the birds wings.
He felt his gut,
Twist till they were tangled.
He felt all the negatives.
He felt the dark.
He felt his lungs stop.
He couldn't breathe.
20 seconds didn't seem bad anymore.
It seemed inviting in fact.
The suffrage of the "happy".
Ends in 20.
He made his choice.
As he let go,
And fell backwards.
His life flashed before him,
A white light,
With figurines of the alive.
He was a happy being.
And things changed.
He changed.
People became different.
And shocked by unknown territory.
He ran away,
And hid with the dark.
That day,
When he met someone like himself,
When everything went right,
When he was living,
When he felt alive,
When all that he ever felt,
They became a past.
And the present and future,
Only held despair,
And a life of panic.
For what he did not know.
All that he felt was,
Trivial.
As feelings became irrelevant.
And numbness took over.
He drifted away,
Slowly into what he is today.
Pessimist or realist.
A thin line resides between the two.
He was the epitome of the confused.
Scattered away.
He felt like a carcass.
Only thing that wanted him,
Were vultures,
Now were they humans or animals,
No one knew.
Not a line in existence.
His life,
Like an open book,
For him to peruse through,
Till the 20 was a 0.
All he found in the pages,
Was the reality of the facade,
Of life.
His life was a joke.
He was a joke.
He hated how he saw himself.
And saw why life hated him too.
After all ,
He couldn't deal with himself.
How was life supposed to?
Regret took over.
Even dying made him hate himself.
No escape.
~CrosOver
YOU ARE READING
The Psyche Of Mine
Poetry**** I've never really known how to move, where to see or what to feel.. But sometimes, I have moved enough to be alive, I have seen enough to not go blind, And I have felt words enough to feel.. **** **** Its my first time properly penning down m...
