Some Nights

Some nights you’re sad.

Some nights you don’t know if you feel bad,

Or maybe it’s always been like this.

Some nights you wish Death would be your first kiss.

Some nights you’re high

From sailing on wings that rarely come by.

Some nights it’s just you

Hoping to God the world won’t undo.

Some nights you’ll fall

And everything else will feel tall.

Where will you go

When the demons start to show?

Some nights you’ll ache

For some heart to keep you awake.

Some nights you’re a lover.

Oh, how well you could create every color.

Some nights you’re the past

When the future feels like an outcast.

Some nights you’re only alive

Until you wake up at five.

Some nights never seem to end

And every thought would blur and blend,

Until you find yourself writing

This poem that keeps on rhyming.

P

Dreams

Sometimes, I wonder about my dreams.

As I look through pictures of people I know or I’m familiar with and words that tell other’s success, I ask myself where I am when those things happened. What was I doing? Was I trying to accomplish my daily school goals just for the sake of getting through each day with my sanity still intact? Was I lying in bed, reading a book about a magical world, so far away that it’s fictional? Was I mourning over the loss of my heart, seeing it so broken that it makes my fingers bleed just trying to reach and hold them? Was I looking for things in virtual space, expanding the horizon of my eyes so my mind could see the world better?

What was I doing?

Was it to get nearer to my dreams?

What are even my dreams? Do they really exist or do I just wish to create something to help me see the road clearer? I feel something stir in me whenever I see these people’s accomplishments. I could feel jealousy because they hold proofs that they accomplished something and I didn’t. I could feel anger towards myself because I wasn’t doing anything to make things clearer for me, to make a name for myself and to create something for myself that I could be acknowledged for. I honestly feel like each day that pass, my passion grows weaker. I am being dragged by my collar, bunched up on my face so much so that it’s getting harder to breathe, and thrown into a prison where I can see, from all sides, the grandeur of my friend’s victories and acknowledgements.

I know I can do so much, but my will feels so little. Such a tiny creature hibernating in my mind.

I wonder where can I go from here. I wonder if the future seems as bright as what my high school version imagined it would be. It’s difficult to be littered with disappointments and expect yourself not to tire from getting up every time you trip on them.

Until now, I feel tired. It does not wane.

P