Dear Life, (2)

i know we've had our differences
(differences meaning
that I am forever wishing
that you were something
you are not),
but today
I would rather
we just get along.
The better part of today
I spent dark.
My mind stained blood red
thinking of endless possibilities
(endlessly searching
for an end),
plotting escape
and freedom.

Sometimes, life,
I think you have it in for me,
these are the times I write
self-righteous and indignant
poetry upon the pages
of a well-worn and loved novel,
because I'm convinced, life,
that you will never grant me
the opportunity
to produce anything near
that which I esteem so highly.
I pretend, if you will,
that I could be something,
an author worthy of publication,
worthy of being read,
worthy of thought,
and worthy of influencing others
in the same way I am influenced
by those I admire.
Too often you laugh
at my pipe dream,
but today, life,
accept my first gift to you:
a peace offering
in the form of a poem.
A poem written on the back
of several receipts,
mostly for cigarettes.
I write here:
I accept my mortality,
all things temporary,
the fact that I may never
amount to anything,
the fact that this poem
may never be read
or published
or given a second thought.
I accept, for now,
that you will not be moulded
to my desires,
that my well-being
really is none of your concern,
and that it may not get better.

Today you gave me hope,
and so today
I accept your terms.
So please, let's get along,
maybe even learn to enjoy one another,
because for now we have a truce,
we are both nothing other
than what we are,
and I can't help it
and I know that you can't either.
We are both bound
by our own chains
of existence,
of co-existence.

Sometimes I forget about birth
in the midst of death,
mostly, I think,
birth is a means to an end,
how tragic and unmerciful
you can be.
And I'm not afraid of dying
but I admit that I'm terrified
of living,
and what option do I have,
but to live out my fear?
Thank you, life.
I hate you but I'm trying.