We are all susceptible to damage. When all is done, and all is corroded, we come to the very familiar, least pleasing realization that life almost always does more injustice than good.
But there's probably all sorts of damage in this world, some deeper than just injuries on the very  surface. Some open wounds you cannot just blink and expect to disappear.
Granted, you will suffer the atrocity of being exposed to the sudden deterioration of a life you mistakenly thought to be yours, when it happens to look nothing like the life you wished for.
Does that make you ungrateful? Or simply suffering like everyone else and refusing to settle for the pain you are obligated to ignore in order to make it till the day death grips you for eternity and for good?
But here comes the long awaited what-if. What if  you get to experience the known to be terrifying death throughout what seems to be your entire life?
To save you the unnecessary bickering of my descending thoughts projected onto you through my writing, I will clarify.
We are all susceptible to damage, some of which might be eternal, but as humans, we are graced by the blissful and foolish ability to ignore, and moreover deny. However, it is only fair to declare that some are better than others when it comes to ignorance and denial. Some can only pretend for so long.
For a happy ending to occur, one's life must be sculptured in fairy-tale form, and narrated by a soul so blinded by illusions, irritating manifestations of false optimism, and hues of duplicated sun beams. For such entities, reality does cease to remain for long.
But as for realists, and survivors of constant ruin, we tend to see the so-called bright side of things for what it actually is: rare, and almost always intangible. We know happy endings do not have much space to exist in our lives. And in the most sufficient matter of things, we are aware of the presence of silver linings to some occurrences, but that tragedy can always find a way to stain that regardless.
And as for those who had given up on life, forcing hope down our throat would be fatal. We know we are flawed in every meaning that word could possibly hold. We still, however, get to witness days of flickering light, and dim gleams. Promise that we do our best to hold onto that, instead of looking away.

and though the light behind our eyes is faint, we dissever only to collide.
and only through yearning for hope no matter how distant, will the war persist to subside.
violent it is, to fight, but remain still.
defy, defy.
deluding are those who in the face of fear
not burst to flames, but disappear.

Please do not let the impulsiveness
of your very heart
take over.
Please do not dream
or dare
go so far
from where the lines
are drawn for you
you'll end up
undone;
foolishly sucked into a sea
of volatile despair,
so defenseless
like poor Icarus.
A love not stained with fear
eagerly waiting for you to reclaim it
or have it crafted into the shape of whatever logic
left in the bits of your weary brain
stays a myth;
you fail to believe such thing could exist
in our land of reality.
Doomed to fall victim
to your worst nightmares coming into life,
taking form and building houses
on your crackling bones,
so uninvited,
you still, nonetheless, come to believe
it was you who inflicted this upon yourself.
Because after all,
he who does not know how to stay steady
in moments of condemned terror
will forever tremble at the sound
of proper romance
painted by all the lovers that once were.
And if you were to be held by arms
that surround your little body
like towers,
agonizing fears that resonate within you
against all security granted from
the heat of their bodies,
will never be understood to them.
So allow yourself to create
your own ocean of seamless reassurance,
knowing that the waves
might simply turn against you
any minute now.

It is the same exact ceiling
the same exact feeling
just the difference of thoughts
that separates this
from becoming
another vivid
flashback.
you wish you'd
decorate
the stillness
of this moment
with a borrowed
sense
of home.
because regardless of the countless repetition
of clear statements
you provide yourself with
to promise your own heart
that this place
is yours,
that it, against all false realizations of fear,
shelters you;
you still know better.
and haven't the deafening silence
gripped you long enough
to know that even with the thickness of the walls;
the hollering, screaming, and the defenseless cries
still can make their way to your very ears?
haven't you had enough fleeting years
seeking a feeling you know
in your heart of  hearts
you are never to be granted?
love that came too late,
acceptance you gave up on,
and the warmth
you begged for
as a child
still will not have
the four walls of a freezing place
turn a restless, seemingly endless
fight
into a home.
cry about it all you want,
seek shelter in different
places, empty spaces, or even
corners that can completely
hide you.
sing loudly,
let the music echo
through the living room walls
until it becomes impossible
to wrap yourself up in the certainty
that you do not belong.
you cannot conceal something
that is irritatingly brighter
than a mid-August sun.
every song you sing
is nothing
but a war song.

Untitled suicide attempt number one thousand.

My life is not dandelions,
or sunshine kissing
the roots of my hair.
It's a struggle between
suicide attempts,
and waiting for just
one
more
day.

It's hope, fleeting from
the palms of my hands.
And lungs, burning
begging me to stop.
And trust me, this is not
another sad poem of mine.
I am done.

But if life is never fair,
then God must be.
It's the only way
I won't get my heart
to stop beating.

Sorry for the Inconvenience

Those who stay away from what lights their fire, are bound to remain in agony, until all else fails and their pain resides for years, and so they find their way back to what could never dim their fire.

With trembling hands and a shaky heart, I write this to the person who claimed it to be a good idea to  read this. But most importantly, I write this to me, who had her ink dry and her soul restless, fighting to release the words her mouth couldn't. Two years of crappy, meaningless chatter in my brain, and I dare not write a single letter. 

Indeed there were times when I felt like my soul did not fit in this human shaped body. It all didn't make sense. I mean, the only thing that made me feel like all my systems were working together, hand in hand, in perfect harmony, was collecting words that belonged in the ashes, and creating something miraculous out of them. It all made sense; I was born to write.

Solemn and honest, it took so much bravery to be this fearful and still admit to the world that I'm mourning the death of my words.

But my dear past self, so much could happen in two years. Besides, you shamed me in all the possible ways, and reshaped me into a much smaller being, smothering my very bones with your never ending doubt towards me. I would lie if I said I didn't hate you for it.

There's this dusty old sad shelf that hangs on one wall in my brain. It's where I put all the things I beg myself not to think about. Happy to tell you that the load got so heavy, and the shelf broke. And the things I begged myself not to think about are fleeting out of me like crows that have been caged for a damn century. Now, I thought it was going to be ugly, but it turned out to be liberating, and a bit too excruciating. 

As a result of my shelf breaking, I declare to have found the matches that were able to light my fire once more. 

I thank my teary eyes for witnessing so much ugliness, and not deciding to shut my lids down.

And as for my very self, I thank her for unwillingly living in black for quite a long time, and still not fearing white.

Curtains drop, the show is over.

Please do not applaud.