A Letter to Myself I’m trying to write a poem, but it ends up as nothing more than a train wreck. I attempt to conjure these meaningful, deep words to impress. I attempt to create something out of nothing, and it can’t be done. I’m stuck. I’m looking for inspiration. It’s a vicious circle. My inspiration is usually the one I want to impress. But in order to gain inspiration, I will first need to impress. It’s odd. When I was younger, I could write about a girl I could only see from afar; her beautiful eyes, her gorgeous body, and the attractive sway in her walk. As you grow older, at least for me, you learn to strive for more than only outer beauty. It doesn’t necessarily matter how she looks, or thinks, as long as she loves you for what and who you are. I realize this is wrong, but you need warmth, you need the sense of comfort with the one your with. I lack this now. I have it with whomever I may fall in love with. I have it with some of my friends, the few that I have. I have many friends that only an electronic device can project to me. I enjoy spending time with them, I cherish them. Please, do not misinterpret this, but they cannot provide the comfort and warmth you and I need. I’m ranting again, because the poet in me is dead. If not dead, at least starving. I may be able to resurrect it someday. I hope that someday is soon, because there’s a void, deep inside, that feeds on my spirit. It’s hard to explain, really. Even though I believe most people have experienced it. I mean, I’m a fool, when I see how trivial hardships bring me, an adult, down. Still, unfortunately, it does. I like seeing myself as an optimist though. I believe there is a light at the end of the tunnel. The pessimist in me, however, is wary. It feels as the pessimist in me is poking the optimist in the side, telling him to get the fuck off the tracks, because a train is coming. Maybe there is a train coming. Who knows? Maybe it will hit me, and the void I feel inside will have consumed my spirit, leaving me empty. It’s a possibility. But is this only due to lack of inspiration? Is it simply the fact that I can’t go back to where I was as a child, and find inspiration in simply outer beauty? I don’t want to go back to that time. Sure, maybe it was fun. At times. However, I refuse to convince myself that I am unable to find inspiration. That can’t be it. I won’t allow it to be. I don’t find it difficult to tell myself this. I know this. I’m simply having a very difficult time convincing myself. Because there is a difference. I can tell myself to believe something I don’t want believe but it won’t matter. Unless I am able to convince myself, there is no need pretend. Unless I deep down, believe, there is no reason. I’m trying to convince myself that there will, someday, be someone to inspire me. I’m trying to convince myself that there is not a train coming towards me, but that the light is in fact someone who looks at me in awe as I sing for her. Someone who looks at me, just for the pleasure of looking at her inspiration. Someone who looks me in the eyes as we make love, and tells me that I inspire her. Then again, I might be wrong. This doesn’t even have to do with love at all. Maybe all I need is a new friend? Perhaps not. All I really can do is wait, isn’t it? Or can I, as a matter of fact, take matters into my own hands and make a friend or gain, instead of find inspiration? Am I the one controlling the light, or is someone else in control of it? I don’t really know. I want to convince myself that I am in control of it. Don’t try to convince me to believe something I don’t. It’s up to me. I need to man the fuck up and seize the day. I must conquer the light; make it do my bidding. Enslave it. All I need to do now is to convince myself that I can. ------- CnC is Highly appreciated.
