I was in a dark place when I wrote this and I feel better now but I figured I'd hold on to it because I feel like everyone feels like this sometimes. I need people to critique it because I haven't gotten a chance to have it work shopped for my advanced creative writing class.
When Hope Seems Too Far
Nobody bothered to tell me that I was running backwards on a conveyor belt and though I’ve reached a point of clarity I continue to exhaust myself. Nobody bothered to tell me that I never made a dent in the mountain I was climbing. It wasn’t until I was knocked off and plummeted to the ground that I realized that all my efforts have turned into nothing more than shattered limbs and amputated hopes. Faced with the realization that maybe I’m not meant to change the world or even a fraction of it. Maybe I will always be trapped in the weakness that words can leave me gutted in a way that sticks and stones could only dream of. And maybe I’m nothing more than two lungs contaminating oxygen or a greedy stomach stealing food from starving children. Maybe my thoughts are mere cliché and my only unique quality is that nobody suffers exactly the way I do. But people tell me to smile as if wearing a mask will take away my problems. I’m still haunted by the fear that when people tell me to be myself they don’t mean it. How would they react if I told them I don’t know how? When they say there’s always hope maybe they don’t mean it. How would they react if I told them that hope is what turns cynicism into depression? I’m nothing but a camel wandering through the desert with illusions of water. Longing to pass through the eye of a needle. But I cannot mourn this existence without being told that depression is a selfish feeling. But maybe I’m a selfish person.
When Hope Seems Too Far
Nobody bothered to tell me that I was running backwards on a conveyor belt and though I’ve reached a point of clarity I continue to exhaust myself. Nobody bothered to tell me that I never made a dent in the mountain I was climbing. It wasn’t until I was knocked off and plummeted to the ground that I realized that all my efforts have turned into nothing more than shattered limbs and amputated hopes. Faced with the realization that maybe I’m not meant to change the world or even a fraction of it. Maybe I will always be trapped in the weakness that words can leave me gutted in a way that sticks and stones could only dream of. And maybe I’m nothing more than two lungs contaminating oxygen or a greedy stomach stealing food from starving children. Maybe my thoughts are mere cliché and my only unique quality is that nobody suffers exactly the way I do. But people tell me to smile as if wearing a mask will take away my problems. I’m still haunted by the fear that when people tell me to be myself they don’t mean it. How would they react if I told them I don’t know how? When they say there’s always hope maybe they don’t mean it. How would they react if I told them that hope is what turns cynicism into depression? I’m nothing but a camel wandering through the desert with illusions of water. Longing to pass through the eye of a needle. But I cannot mourn this existence without being told that depression is a selfish feeling. But maybe I’m a selfish person.