In Between

Cynical Wordsmith

I cried myself to sleep,
Often,
When I was younger
Because I didn’t know how
Or when
The world would end.

There’s a paralyzing fear
That surfaces
Occasionally
For things we don’t know,
And things I can’t change.

How does one go
About day to day Life?
How does one Love
Knowing loneliness is imminent?

I’m lost, I know,
But my hopes are pervasive.
Hopes for you, the world,
And all that’s in between.

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Falling

Cynical Wordsmith

I keep falling,
Expecting
The metaphorical ground
To stop me
With a final,
Sickening
Crunch.

“But all is not lost,”
They tell me,
“There is still hope.”

And I do believe,
In the reliability of gravity,
That systems are broken,
That you don’t know
Who I’ve been,
Who I am,
Or who I’m dying to be.

There’s a chill wind today
And I wonder why the air
Feels different on a rooftop,
Like it has motive
Or maybe just a message.

But the sun is falling again.
It’s just another end
To just another day,
And as I walk inside,
I can’t exactly recall
How the ground below feels,
Just that it’s cold
And I know I’m not ready
To feel it again.

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The Discrepancy

Cynical Wordsmith

There’s a decrepitness
And a discrepancy
Inside my mind,
Entombing this old soul.

I wish I could be
Innocent again,
Ignorant of life
And all that comes with it.

I wish I didn’t think
And expect the worst,
But it’s simply experience,
Repitition and ingrained outcomes.

But how does one double think?
How do I know something
To be true and not true?
I suppose it’s just like the lies
I tell myself everyday.

Upon reflection,
I’d wager a guess
That it’s just my beliefs,
That inner cynic,
That dictates my truth.
That simple truth,
That life can always be better.

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