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Expectations

I wrote a couple of lines and it wasn’t what was inside. I figured maybe I should explain what happened this time. Maybe I need a disclaimer before I undoubtedly spill my heart and my mind on these keys. I figured I’ll do that tomorrow. 


With so much love in this world, why did I love you? With so little time that you had, why did you agree on loving me? I don’t need a philosophical good-bye. I don’t want your speech. Spare me how I will appreciate this later, and do away with how good of a person you are. Don’t remind me that this was for us…this was for you.

It will pass. Everything always does. The echo of my mom in my head.

I can be bitter and throw back how selfish and insensitive it was to throw me away at my hour of need. I can curse your name. I can cry all night…again.

And I will, because I am human. I’m not afraid of my feelings, and contradictory to your belief, this is how I handle them, and I do it well.

There’s nothing wrong with me. I am not damaged. I do not need to be needed. I do not need to be validated for my growth. I am a wonderful being, and you will never take that away.

I will be wanted.

One day by you, then I won’t want you.

And one day by another, who never see me in a dim light.

As much as I try to understand, some words can never be forgotten.

I will handle my illness on my own. I’m sorry I reached out to you for comfort. Actions really do speak louder than words, ironically you would always tell me.

And as I cried, fear of what the doctors would say…you walked away.

I will not wish harm. I will not wish this on you either, because I am stronger than you…I can take this.

It will pass, everything always does.

So have my expectations of you.

But never of I.

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Happy Holidays

I am sick and tired of doing this.

Losing my creativity at the cost of what? The gain for who?

Another.

The others.

It’s always the others.

I’m sick of this  shit.

Sick of it.

Believe it or not I would write lovely things.

Poetry.

Short Stories.

Wrote for publications.

The extent of being burned out.

We are not robots.

This life we live is mechanical.

To go faster, to produce faster.

At what cost?

Yourself.

Your art.

I wish not to be a robot.

Wish not for money.

My identity is worth more than anything you can throw my way.

 

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