Painful Memoirs.

Parisitic leachings that could only guarantee life teachings.

I don’t know if I reminded them

all of their inner ghosts.

Or maybe I even scared them

at the thoughts of what I’d done before.

 

I was a murderer of happiness.

A leach off of others life force.

 

I could not bare it, just as they could not bare me.

 

I don’t know why I turned out this way,

or why my feet touched the soiled grounds.

I could never tell you who in their right mind would create me.

Or for what purpose I was to bring to this earth.

 

But I know I have a purpose.

And I know I have my voice.

Though hushed a mumbled,

due to countless betrayals and bruisings,

It is still there.

 

I suppose I just began to wonder, to ponder even,

On what exactly it was I was meant to do.

 

Was I obsessed? Was I bordering crazy?

Or perhaps I was just seeing into some

magic looking glass no one else could.

Maybe I had the ghost of an older soul, a friend if you’d say.

Or maybe it was even an angel.

I could not tell you, honestly.

 

But I do know one thing.

No matter how bad things get around here.

No matter how low and utterly crushed I feel inside,

I know I have a purpose.

 

Even if it is only hope keeping me alive,

or a dream towards the future,

It is a means to stay breathing.

A memoir of life itself

and the ability to prolong it even if I wanted,

so desperately to take it away.

 

And I begin to wonder, to ponder even,

If that is all I could ever ask for.

Reviews

[nostal]

This is not a story. I have been duped once again.

[Biata]

Did not mean to 'dupe' you. I never know what to classify these overly descriptive, rather short, narrations of mine.