Why?

Why must I be the way I am? It’s almost like my soul is buried within the soil of a tree of sorrow and insecurity. Why is my brain so heavily weighed down by thoughts that could hold down a sailboat in a hurricane? Why must the feelings that arise in me cause me such distress, the ones that come from having good intentions. Why is it that none of the people I look up to can see that I’m dying, when all I’ve ever done is revive them when they’re lowering themselves into their grave? Why is it that there’s a forcefield of hate and regret around my body, preventing others to come close because they don’t want to join me in the suffering and pain I feel?

Why do I treat the love of my life in ways I’d never want to treat myself? Why do I allocate trust in such an uneven fashion? Why can’t I realize that the way I love is not good enough, and that I should change? Why must I put up a facade to my own inner self that I’m okay, when I know I’m the farthest thing from it?

Looking into pain’s eyes, admitting defeat within myself as he races towards me with swords and knives. He has every intention to kill, every intention to put me out of my misery.. or so I thought. A tear shed down my face and dropping into the blood puddle on the floor, but yet no incision was made. Just a cut on the surface. Enough to make me uncomfortable, but I’d prefer to be gone. Why can’t he finish me off. Why can’t he get me out of the hellhole that is my head? The voices in my head are quietly whispering, but they turn into raspy screams as I beg for solace and comfort. They search for my skull to explode so they can breathe, let them breathe. Let it be done. Let me face the consequence of my own insecurity. But no.. It’s not that easy, is it? Some would argue living despite aches and pain is better than not living at all. But, is that true? Is it possible to enjoy life when your brain becomes louder and louder with resentment and pain day after day? Is it possible to want to stay alive when the mental torture becomes so much that you lay awake at night, begging for a second to breathe but being suffocated by my own mental blood?

Why do I have such a blessing in my life. She’s been nothing short of perfect for me but yet my bad habits and insecurities get in the way of me treating her right. Do I deserve to have her? No. No I don’t. My blood boiling under the soil that my head buried me in, causing me to think irrationally and hurt myself and the one who wants to help me. She helps me. I can be helped. But is this really true? Is it possible for me to get rid of all this internal shouting, all the screams that give me headaches and heartaches, all the red alarms flashing in my head when the slightest flashback to my past rushes by? Is it true that I’m not fixable? Should I be fixed? Do I want to be fixed…? No amount of wrenches and hammers could deconstruct the spiraling pattern my brain has become so accustomed to. No demolition crew could take down the walls that bottle up the love I want to show, leaving only the rough things to be displayed.


He walks down a path. A path with dim lighting on the trees around him, the faint sound of grass and gravel beneath his feet as he moves along. His soles in his shoes have fallen off from the wear-and-tear, only after walking on mental instability and false hope. His ribs, broken after falling on mental spirals and spikes made of his past mistakes. A knife, shoved into his heart by an evil man made up of his own intentions. Blood splattering onto his clothing, spelling out “Help” across his shirt with sorrow and pain stripes on it. He finally sees the door into paradise, the golden doorframe chants out his name as he inches forward. “Come, see what peace is like.” He reaches closer and closer, but stops. He gets on one knee, grunting and gasping for air as despair takes its toll on him. The toll heavier than any bill he’s paid, more expensive than any amount of saving could afford. Can he afford going into emotional debt to take care of this toll? Can the history he has with pain be erased with more of it? Can he see what peace is like?.. Is it really peace?

Maybe peace isn’t all it’s meant to be. Maybe his peace is the stab wound. Maybe its the broken ribs that pierce into his lungs with every shaking breath. Maybe its the blood splattering on his clothing, staining it a beautiful red that some may refer to as an acquired taste. His head pounds in pain, but what if the pain is just a beautiful melody? Maybe its the drums to a song every moment of his life has played a part in creating.

What if the raspy screams are the lead singers?

Why are they so loud?

Should I be scared?
Why?

Why am I so scared?

Why.