Few Will Tell You This

The urge to die hits me first thing

stronger than anything.

It circles in my head

then pierces me - a sharp spike.

My heart lights up

briefly, like a shooting star.

My muscles torn and wrecked; I depart.

My bones shattered into a million pieces.

The neglected parts, meant to shine,

all ruined now.

I slowly get out of bed, then

gently follow my daily routine:

opening windows, a shower, breakfast,

and then a warm-up - a short writing session - to avoid

dwelling on this feeling.

I won't let this get the best of me.

It'll fade, like the others before it.

I'll be back to normal in minutes, hours, or a day at most.

First my posture, then my spirit, will mend.

It takes a few days and nights

until full recovery takes place,

to run fast again, no more sluggish pace.

Things loom large when you're feeling low.

They'll leave an indelible mark

impacting life,

for decades

lost and bewildered, out of place

in life's grand scheme.

A lonely sidebar,

apart from the dazzling crowd,

a frightening afterthought.

I've learned to accept this.

I've let go of the paths and routines

that were supposed to lead me to “normalcy”.

I tried so hard to fit in

but it never worked fully.

The only way out

to escape this feeling's grip

is following each step to the end

of this impulsive cycle; a twenty-year invader.

It will win in the end

but while some

contemplate death in old age,

for me, it began in my teens.

No one understood

as in my head

I felt old

before even knowing life unreservedly.

Nothing and no one

could have changed my path.

God bless all the grey zones.

There's a light ahead -

a sun at the tunnel's end.

---

When it's all over, it always surprises me.

How could I have lived with this urge to die

for so long?

I suppose it's just habit, this life

that's given once and taken away so often.

It's not really a mystery.

They infantilized me, projecting their own pain.

Mentally neglected since a young age.

That was enough

to hold a grudge.

I see it clearly now, unlike before.

Outside, nothing's changed at all.

The ones who made it happen

live their lives quietly

never owning up to what they did.

Solution? Pouring my heart out

twisting their awful realities

into a story for everyone.

Punishing them

for ignoring the vast field of knowledge -

psychology, the queen.

Only as fictional figures

can they atone

for their sins

and improve, for themselves too.

Like actors shifting roles in movies and plays -

they reinvent themselves constantly

offering us life's varied possibilities.

That's the only way, not any other.

Primitive notions can't truly conquer.

They can't destroy lives and break hearts

offering nothing in return .

Words pour forth from my voice and pen

yet nothing brings solace as I confront Death.