Human

The truth is I'm not a poet.
I am not worthy of your time,
Or your space,
Or your interest.
So why are we so intrigued by this statement?
Why are you continuing to read on?
Each line unravels with each thought of mine.
These thoughts that unravel,
That unhook from my mind,
Sliding down my figure to the core of my existence,
But yet you enjoy this pure collapsing of the mind.
You enjoy the embodiment of my sanity.
The fear of my heart.
Like the public you crave each of my movements.
My anticipations.
You aspire to crawl within the depths of my core,
To know the wreckage of my soul.
To examine the damage inflicted on another poor heart,
To track this storm and fury swirling inside me.
But this poem is not about me at all.
Its really about the sickness of our youth,
How the reality is that our drive,
Our passion,
Our inspiration,
Has turned into the search of weaknesses.
We admire pain,
Suffering,
Heartache.
Only to Hate when it is our turn.
So why live on?
What is your purpose of doing this?
If you live to Hate,
Instead of create,
Why would we live on?
Because we are human.
We are all damaged and broken.
We all are merely a torn seem upon the flesh of a lost doll.
Each alone.
Each afraid.
Each imperfect.
Yet alert of the world,
Although we know not how to live out our lives.
So pick a dream.
Follow it.
Because just like you,
Someone will judge you, too.
Seems only fair,
after all,
We're only human.