I guess I really am a hopeless dreamer

I had a dream about you the other night. It was just like it was before, and then you left. I woke up, but fell back asleep in the hopes that you would reenter my dream. I kept dreaming and dreaming, but you never came back.

I feel like such a failure.
School.
Work.
Relationships.
Anything.
Why can't I fucking engage?
Why am I so apathetic?
Why do I do this to myself, and why can't I stop?
How can I fix it?

Is it too much to ask?

Please, I just want a bit of fucking honesty.

Less About Control (inspired by Sherin)

I stumbled upon a firefly
the brightest I have ever seen;
through the barricades of darkness
his shining radiance broke.
For a while
this firefly kept me company
ignited me with his light
and made me see beauty
through his outward glow.
I wish you could count
on a firefly to stay,
but one never can.
If you contain a firefly
in a jar,
the light that once shone so bright
will only diminish.
I won't be responsible
for extinguishing the glimmer,
I'd rather nurture it
into a flame that spreads
until the whole world is lit,
ablaze with mystery
and enraptured by beauty.
My best friend sings,
'What I know is that life
is less about control
than it is
about love',
and the song repeats in my head
and resonates in my heart.
So I will let
the firefly wander his course
and pray that it leads back to me.
In the meantime if he has work to do,
others to set aglow
and bring hope to;
I'm grateful for this gift.
I have a light of my own to work on,
but just in case
I will keep a candle in the window
for him.

you say one thing
you do another
this is not news
to the world
it happens all the time.
just know that
i can deal.
for all your shit,
i can deal.
for all your lies,
i can deal.
for all your shortcomings,
i can deal.
sticks and stones.
not that i don't have my own.
and i'll deal with those too.
i'm the little engine that could
and i can i can i can.
and i will,
and maybe after a while
you won't lie
and you won't leave,
maybe you'll even care.
maybe after a while
it will be two against the world
instead of just one.
maybe i believe that
you're worth the trouble.
i don't know what i see,
but whatever it is, is real,
and that's what i want.
so throw me your best,
take a shot,
i'm already taking on the world,
so how much more difference
could you possibly make?

Dancing at Gunpoint

Running through a minefield
desperately trying to dodge
the glancing blows,
sporadic,
unexpected.
They explode carelessly
as if they were unaware
of an innocent life
trying to escape
unscathed.
Or perhaps more as if
they were making a mockery,
like the man who points a gun
at another's feet
and commands, "dance!"
I'm dancing at gunpoint.
I'm weaving through the explosives.
And I'm dancing at gunpoint.
I tire, I weaken,
but I keep on,
and wait for a second wind,
and hope that there's a third,
and a fourth,
and maybe, if I'm lucky,
a fifth.
I grit my teeth and bear it,
and retaliate with a smile,
because it's all I can do
to keep from exploding
myself.

Suck on this.

If I go out, I want it to be with a heart wide open and guns blazing.

We'll make magic.

I delve into worlds of fantasy,
immerse myself deep
in the realms of imagination.
I get lost in a place
I make for myself,
a place so beautiful,
so magical and legendary
that I become intoxicated by
its sweet nectar.
Mental mystics,
realists
and escape artists
all would do well here,
we strive for the same.
A place so profoundly inspiring
in its tragedy,
so uplifting in its vulnerability,
so rich in its mystery,
and so intriguing in its truth,
that it might stop all of time
in order to allow each soul
to spend eternity
paying (and receiving)
the homage of which it is worthy.
It is enough to captivate my heart
and take my breath away,
I would die for such a place,
I would take all, the best and worst,
parts of myself,
and create,
create,
create.
Create until there was nothing left of me
and I had given all myself,
invested my life
in this world I believe in,
this world that must exist
for I could not without it.
I would create until I could no more,
that others might taste the beauty
of this world,
perfect in its imperfection,
human in its pain
and strengthening in its immortality.
Come and create with me
we'll pour our lives
into a well-spring of life itself.
We'll give all we have
and gain eternity.
This, it seems,
is something worth fighting for.
Finally.

Genesis 12

The altars I build are not of praise,
or thanks,
but of pain.
They mark my steady progression
into nothingness.

But isn't it better to be real,
true,
myself,
than a suffocating lie?
From where I stand,
a mortal,
either way suggests
a coffin,
waiting
for a premature death.
Death to myself,
or death to what I once loved
(or have I already died to both)?
My chances don't look so good.
Grim, in fact,
and awaiting harvest.