From the little black book,
What am I doing? My life is filled with bright vibrant days.
Warm light filters through a forgotten skylight.
Hope tingles in my chest somedays.
I think, I feel, I believe that a better day is awaiting me.
Yet, that same old grasp pulls at my heart.
Why am I still treading towards that day, when so often it feels like a dream.
I only breath, because it’s all I’ve known.
The alternative not sought, through fear rather than hope.
What is living, than not dying?
Is that all that there is?
Optimism suits me not. I am but a product of my upbringing.
Lost, and only helplessly waiting to be found.
What else could I be?
I raise my glass to unknown days, hoping to reach unknown shining shores.
My ship beat by the waves of the ocean, so battered that even I cannot recongnize it.
My thoughts like weights which only bring forth the depths to the shore.
A rocky mess hidden behing bright warm days.
I know not, what I am seeking. Yet my sails falter not, even as I shake at the helm.
Forget myself in stories, for I cannot hut in another’s shoes.
This is the only path that I can tred.
Lies trail across my chest, my arms and my legs. My scars marking me for all to see.
I know not why I still keeping pushing forwards.
All I know is what I know.
What am I doing, but, living.
Living and lieing.