Damned.

She is as soft

as a cotton feather.

And as sensitive

as a baby’s skin.

 

But deep down,

Lies a monstrous soul.

Suppressing everything,

It grew to be mean.

The mask she wears
For other people’s pleasure

Hides the darkest corners

Of her mind.

At the crack of dawn,

The cover cracks like glass.

And starts to unleash,

The demon behind.

Now awake,

A little groggy.

It’s as if the monster

Had left her being.

But no one knows,

It’s always there.

Evermore, underneath,

Slowly breathing.

Battling the demon

Has always been tough.

They think she’s okay,

Assuming as always.

They’re not cognizant

Of what she actually deals with

A constant battle

That’s been going on for days.

Or weeks.

Or years.


 

Midnight Talking

You lie awake at night, 

asking the same thing.
Is this right,
to feel everything?

 

The voices don’t cease,
as if they’re playing automatically.
It’s hard to feel bliss,
the voices saying, “Can’t you be kind to me?”

 

Feeling melancholy,
you tell yourself that it’s okay.
Is this where you should be?
To live helplessly everyday?

 

One voice whispered, “Hey, shouldn’t you be gone?”
You retorted, “Do you think so?”
And it replied, “Should I give you a reason?”
So you pondered, should you go?

 

The clock strikes half past one in the morning,
But you are restive as you lie.
You await for people’s awakening,
and look forward for midnight to die.

 

Until then, agony becomes your friend.
Death becomes your acquaintance.
Life becomes your enemy.
Yourself is what you pity —

 

Until midnight reaches its end.

 

 

Inadequacy.

Have you ever had the feeling of not being good enough? That you’re never worth it?

 

Well, this day is one those days. Where I feel as if I’m running away from something that’s not there; something abstract, invisible. Lately, I’ve been asking myself a lot of questions. Questions mostly about self-hatred, dispute, and scarcity.

 

“Why am I not good enough for writing?”

Is one of the questions I ask myself. I have always been fond of writing ever since childhood. I used to make fan fictions for my friends, one-shot stories, and even “imagines”. Currently poetry is the bloodline of my writing “career” (if you can even call it that) and I still feel like my poems are shit. They’re absolutely no good, not well-constructed, a mess. Yet, I see other people my age who can write beautiful pieces with or without breaking a sweat–still, the point is, that if they can do it, why can’t I seem to? Is it because I don’t actually have the talent? Or maybe I wasn’t just really gifted with talent of writing? I guess I’ll never know. While typing this, I feel sick. Because I can’t use fancy terminologies or fix my train of thoughts appropriately and because of that, I know I lack the important skill of writing.

 

“Why am I not good enough for painting and drawing?” 

This one’s pretty obvious to me. I am aware that I am not great at painting (and drawing for that matter) yet I keep doing it. Just shows how much how hard-headed I am. This is kind of upsetting because I genuinely enjoy painting and drawing but my passion for it isn’t enough to fuel my creativity to be able to make mesmerizing art. I’ve realized this thought as I was watching a person paint a realistic painting of a person, with shading, lighting and everything, which is one of my greatest weaknesses. I kept comparing myself to her over and over; “how come she can do it perfectly?” “how can she do that?” “why can’t I do it?”. In fact, I can’t paint without a base or copy–which she can do just fine (but if I do it, my piece will surely turn out as trash). Sometimes, I can’t help but doubt my love for art. Maybe art’s not meant for me after all, considering all the weaknesses and cons I have whenever I make one.

 

“Why am I not good enough of a student?” 

As a student, I frequently ask myself this question. Why I’m never able to be the best top-notcher, why I can’t perfect an easy exam, why I can’t recite in class properly, why I can’t perform speeches or performance tasks in front of people. I’m always anxious, queasy, easily pressured even when I’m not supposed to be. I study all day and night because I want things to get done the soonest. Once they announce quizzes, exams, homeworks, activities, I do them as soon as the words leave from my professors’ mouth. But still, I don’t get the grade that I think I deserve. I even once considered myself to be homeschooled because people terrify me (since I go to a bigger school now than before). I feel them judging, criticizing, stabbing me in my back. I can hear their whispers, the roll of their eyes as I walk past, the uncomfortable shift of the world as they turn to look at me. I lack social well-being. In relation to this question, I ask myself, “I think I’m only good at memorizing stuff. But that doesn’t make me smart, does it? They have a difference, I know.” And I admit it to myself in the mirror. I’m not smart, I can only memorize–and there’s a goddamn difference.

 

With these questions, I tend to question myself and my abilities. In line with this, I scrutinize myself in the meanest way possible. I am my own enemy. Either I meddle with these demons, or I break free. There is no in-between. But meddling with them is much more fun because I don’t see one positive thing about being talentless. I want to be good enough, to be worth it, to be okay. Will I ever?

Having that said, I hope you find what you truly love doing, and being good enough for that. I hope you find yourself worth it, amidst the negative things that are choking you. Stay strong, reader. Stay strong, self.

 

xx

 

 

Will you?

“You’re worthless,” 

My mom said.

“You’re stupid as fuck,”

My dad said. 


“I’m alright,” 

I said.

“Stay strong,”

They said.

“Hold on tight,”

My brain said.

“Wanna rot and die?”

My heart said.


Am I truly worthless?

Or maybe not.

So I took the blade,

And put it on my wrist.


Blood spilling,

Tears falling,

Heart breaking,

Tired of living.


This time,

I cut deeper.

Thoroughly.

Surely.


Oh, the pain,

The agony, 

The hurt,

They don’t all go away.


Tell me, God, 

Is this how it is?

Swallowed by the 

Words of others.


Tonight, I plan

On dying, leaving,

Fading.

Will you miss me?