The Point Of Trying

What’s the point of trying,
When my efforts leave me crying?
When my thoughts circle dying?
When I think everyone is lying?

What’s the point of trying,
If my bravest act is complying?
If it’s the deepest truths I’m denying?
If even greatness is unsatisfying?

What’s the point of trying,
When I’m constantly self-denying?
When a simple conversation is terrifying?
When depression is positive identifying?

What’s the point of trying,
If angsty poetry is all that I’m supplying?
If my mental state is all I’m edifying?
If an internet like is the peak of gratifying?

What is the point of trying,
When my legacy will be horrifying?
When my body will be mortifying?
When the result will be mystifying?

Yet I am trying.

Trying to be the one supplying a way to express the horrifying. Cause there is no denying, the thoughts of dying are mortifying, but also mystifying and strangely gratifying when you find that justifying the days spent crying, or self-denying, or complying, was purifying.

When life feels unsatisfying, there is something edifying, in identifying with the terrifying. Processing and magnifying, focussing, and occupying the stupefying underlying processes of the mind.

Perhaps the point of trying,
Is to begin the process of purifying
Is to enable present moment occupying
Is to deny the darkness justifying.

Perhaps the point of trying,
Is to promote hope magnifying.
Is to reveal your truth underlying.
Is to heal from trauma stupefying.

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This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.

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Trying

Here I am,
Trying once again.

Trying to create something beautiful,
Trying to glimpse eternity,
Trying to distil a moment.

Here I am,
Trying once again.

Trying to impress,
Trying to state my worth,
Trying to be something more.

Here I am,
Trying once again.

Trying to reconcile talent with torment,
Trying to balance fun with functionality,
Trying to see the ramifications of reality.

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This poem is from the book, ‘Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly’.

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Spiralling Into Darkness

The clarity of the past is blinding,
With ill-conceived words
And deeds now binding.

Longing for a change inside and out,
All I’m left with now is doubt.

Spiralling into darkness,
The void is all I see,
The world is falling down,
Dropping on top of me.

Any feeling is a good feeling,
Bleeding just for the sensation,
Bleeding to feel alive again.

I’m sick of all the trying,
Sick of all the crying,
Sick of everything that I ever was.

All I want to do is let it go,
Not let it show and forget about the rest.

Spiralling into darkness,
The void is consuming me,
The world crashing down,
Tumbling towards me.

What is right or wrong no longer matters, Black and white look the same in darkness.

You think I care, but I don’t,
You think I’ll cry but I won’t.

The problems we once shared
Mean nothing to me now.
Your vanity is shameful,
Your ignorance boundless.

Spiralling into darkness,
The void has engulfed me;
The world has been brought down
And is now smothering me.

Take me away, get me out of myself,
Just one moment of respite is all it will take.
I can only be stretched so far,
Pushed until I break.

To the memories that shape me,
To the memories that remind me,
To the memories that haunt me
To the scars that remain

I’m done.

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This poem is from the book, ‘Words On A Page’

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