Oeuvre #3

I fight with the insides of my mind daily. At nighttime I seek companionship in sleep. In sleep, I see myself in the eyes of the storm. My own eyes tell me that I look like raindrops falling in the wind. This is my moment of reflection. I mirror myself after no one. Don’t tell me I look like, sound like, or remind you someone else who appears to be like me. It is highly unlikely that you will find another like me. You’ll find none that can write like me. I write what it feels like to feel empty and alone in a room full of family and friends. I write what it feels like to see myself through another person’s lens. I write what it feel like to not like life, like this life really got something for me. I’m the confused conundrum with double aims. I never wander aimless. I know where indecision can lead me. Bleed me blood with sweat and tears and I am useless to the cause. See my blood sweat and tears and stitch me with gauze. There is no structure to this. There are no foundations to be laid. There are only dreams of future days with the infinite. Don’t try to read this for clarity. Rather, let the murkiness of this writing help you understand the reality of my calamity. So, don’t tell me you know what it feels like. I don’t need any sympathy, because when I die there won’t be a symphony. Just read my favorite poems out loud, among the living, that I may die, as I have lived. Giving.