Poetry Anthology

This thing called life

I'm starting to think that I was born to do nothing more than this. Either to be consumed with a numbing unfeelingness, an emptiness. Or a consuming turmoil of every emotion. Except the good ones. I have no super smarts, no stellar looks, no strong will, nothing of real value. Only oxygen in my lungs and a beating heart, although the inside of myself dead. Being imprisoned by a healthy body, leading to nothing but frustration.

I resent everything about life. Because sometimes one's having it brings nothing but death. It's a peculiar thing that, life. How one will want nothing to do with it and yet another will want everything to do with it, even trying anything they can to keep it. And still, fail - while the one gets to keep the one thing he resents most. There's a touch of sadism somewhere in all this. Like whatever it is that gives life finds a way to punish us all.

Maybe life isn't living as we know it. It hasn't been for me. How many of us can truly say we're alive and not just breathing? We walk around aimlessly, fooling ourselves with purpose we don't really believe in. Jobs we don't really like, friends we don't truly connect with etc...hell, we use anything we can to hide that we're not dead and living... Drugs, money, sex, adrenaline. All so we can feel alive. We fill up our schedules so that we feel important, so we matter. We rarely feel. I mean truly feel. We just go through routines numbly, like zombies. Filling up our lives with irrelevant bullshit just to avoid the questions that live deep inside of us... The questions we rarely have answers too...

What am I doing here?

What is the point of all this?

Am I happy?

Am I doing this right thing? Living the way I should?

Does this feel right?...Is it right?

Is this how it's supposed to be?

But maybe it's different for you. Maybe you're alive. Just know you're one of the lucky ones. The one's who've figured out or found what the rest of us couldn't...

-M