A Paradox?

I give up.

I wash these bloody hands,

Stained with Hope,

For the final time.

– Or at least, I hope I do.

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Love me?

I cannot say… ‘I love you’,

No, to this I will not confess.

Since, I don’t know if those words are true.

How can I say it, and mean it,

When I know I’m not good enough for you?

So, these words cannot be used unless,

I’m convinced that you love me too.

 

Our Innocence lost

The hardest part to digest,

Is not seeing the gaping wounds on shocked victim’s faces.

Nor is it the bitterest pill to swallow,

Seeing their homes savagely brought to the ground.

Yes, there were many hopes destroyed,

And yes, many positive outcomes murdered,

But the most painful reality to witness,

Is the loss of innocence that now exists.

The fact that the purity of good people has been stripped away,

Is the greatest crime of them all.

Thus the saddest truth,

Is not – the deeds of the passing army, done,

But that we like them, have become.

I’m Tired

I’m sick and tired,

Of feeling sick and tired.

Is all this merely a result of how my brain is wired?

Or is this malaise somehow acquired,

Or perhaps a result of some plot, conspired?

I yearn for relief from this state, undesired.

For how much longer must I feel like an entity, expired?

Changing Seasons

Winter’s arriving,

And a part of me is glad.

Though when one season comes,

The other must depart,

Which usually leaves me feeling sad.

This Summer’s progress though has been but few,

And I know Winter leaves little chance to start anew.

The Summer was filled with sunshine,

But without much rain,

Which made progress a pain,

And since something was lacking,

I hardly made a gain.

So I enter Winter still searching for missing pieces,

But should I hope for what I’m looking for,

In the season when almost everything decreases?

 

 

 

 

 

Feeling wrong

What’s the reason for seeing myself as so bizarre?

Like a monster who treads the earth, wearing some frightful scar.

What prompts me to feel like something so absurd?

Like one so vile, he should not be seen of nor heard.

Could it be the layers of imperfection which cause the shame?

Or are the menacing words of cruel people to blame?

You know that something is wrong, when you don’t feel right.

You know something is wrong, when it’s easier to be out of sight.

I would like to know why it is I feel this weird,

And seemingly struck by misfortune, so poorly engineered.

Am I really as pathetic as the taunter’s words make me feel?

Are any of these feelings even real? 

Fragility

You live, somewhere beyond,

Some place, I can’t get to.

My fortitude, does not correspond,

With the place, in which I’m desperate to find you.

I had convinced myself, rather foolishly,

That we’re both of the same kind.

Hoping that by you, I would be loved exclusively,

But who can love one, with such a delicate mind?