#writer-side

[writer-side]

Scraps: Blurbs

Genuine, the word that has become half of itself with time. Just like the rest of us.

[writer-side]

Scraps

I was always told that I’d amount to something someday. That I’d become a part of something amazing, great, remarkable. 

But that was then, and as of now all I know is that my list of ailments is becoming something extraordinary from what things I thought awaited me when I took my first steps out of home into the rest of life. 

Sure, they taught you in school that it’s important to be proactive. They taught you that two plus two always equaled four. But what they never taught you was how such a simple thought could spiral into a heavy reminder of what was, and what wasn’t. How every time I think about that problem I think about the best of the group, and how I always envied that talent. How every decision you made was what you wanted and not what was in store for you. You have trouble eating, but you’ve grown from eating too much. You can’t reverse the effects or the decisions you made to get to where you are. You just don’t feel right.

When you’re finally exhausted and not sure how to feel you just exist until your next daily task. Always in motion, never changing.

And from here it’s quite easy to see, you have deteriorated.

[writer-side]

Scraps: Blurbs

“What do you mean by that?” He exclaimed. “Do you really find me that hard to be around? Was everything you spent years telling me all a farce until your better option came around? I don’t understand.” 

His friend reluctantly opened his mouth, pausing momentarily to make sure what he said next mattered. He had spent years dealing with him, always making sure to keep quiet when he wasn’t sure what to say. Perfectly basking in the emotion he so clearly gave off hoping he could one day understand what it meant to be true to yourself and open to others. Softly he murmured, “My problem isn’t you, it’s never been you. You’ve always been the one thing in my life that I could count on. My problem isn’t that, friend. My problem lies in myself because I can’t properly slow down to appreciate how much you do and how difficult I am.”

His friend froze, eyes turned away. What he didn’t understand was that his friend always understood that. His friend did it because he knew that otherwise they would not have been friends at all. Then he would feel truly alone.

[writer-side]

Scraps: Blurbs

It was an interesting feeling I had been left with in the end. Nothing but good intentions drew what became the hole in my chest.

[writer-side]

Scraps: Natural Order

I miss you like the sun misses the moon, because no matter how many times they circle each other.

They can never seem to contact the way it's fiery personality intended to. Although I cast my being upon you, and we connect in other ways.

I can't help but feel similar to the way the sun merely manages to simply cast light upon the moon.

This way, everyone else can revel in it's beauty. The same way I wish I could make you feel about yourself, in terms of everyone else.

Because to me, you're like the moon in the way you can cut through the dark black that surrounds me when you're at your fullest.

A beauty that pales in comparison to something as majestic and powerful as the sun, because while everyone might think the world of me.

To me, you're my world.

[writer-side]

Scraps: Imaginary

Staring at the ceiling I wonder if the way I feel is how a child who never knew their parents feels everyday.

As if a world of problems surrounds myself the way bees swarm to guard their beloved queen during an intrusion of security.

In a way such that my insecurities swallow me whole in a manner similar to the way one would imagine a shark attack off the coast of a sunny beach.

Confided in by darkness, which tells all the stories that not a single soul cares to hear.

Nights feeling as lonely as the hole that serves as solitary for the worst of criminals.

As if I have committed some heinous crime that I could never atone for, cursed with a mind that never sleeps similar to a child with attention difficulties fighting back the temptation of an object that gleams in the comforting light cast by the stained glass window in a church during a preacher’s seminar to conquer your inner demons.

But with every night that passes by, one fear engulfs me like the small japanese villages in the face of a tsunami.

Can anybody else understand what sort of worries and fears haunt me. Could they reciprocate this emotion as simply as their fractions for math homework.

Or was I the problem that everyone skipped, and was left unsolvable?

Like the imaginary numbers that littered my final year of highschool, marked by the bolded words, “No Solution”.

It could all be in my head, this could be my problem’s imaginary number.

Marked by the bolded words that litter my left over notebooks.