If it seems as though there is no reason to live, ask yourself what you'd be willing to die for.
If someone pushed a gun up to your head and said,
"Either you or ______ has to be dead,"
is there anything or anyone you'd die for, instead?
The rain of these days seeps through
my salt-stiffened boots. Everywhere I walk is a puddle
and my shoes were built for style, not water-keep-away
so my boots become sponges at the end of the day.
As the rain seeps in my feet
curling into my toes and making the rest of me cold
rising, spreading into my skin and my stomach, I
look all around me at this desolate wasteland -
wasted snow, wasted grass, wasted words, wasted
and I ask myself why I even bother to trudge the rest of the way.
We're all just blades of brown, brittle grass
hoping and praying this snow is our last
because if the sun doesn't show his harsh face pretty soon, we'll
fade into darkness, like the sky eats the moon.
And I want to know if you, too, feel the ache.
The prisons we carry and the poison we take
convincing ourselves we're adrift in the lake of
lost souls and lost
as I've surely lost mine -
perhaps all we see is just one big mistake.
And we're nothing but specks in a world about to break.
It is here, as I clamor for purpose, that I see
how disgusting and impure my true nature can be.
So I'll hide away from life, from prying eyes.
Looking at this whole earth
and not asking "what's in it for me?"
but rather, "what's in me for it?"
Everything I offer is shattered pottery
broken vessels that once held purpose but are now full of no things. I cry
because what am I living for? what good do I yield -
I use the sleet as my blanket and sleep in the hurt.
We're all torn up enough without me, as it were.
But life, it is not in the business of loosening its hold, and
when we tempt death to take us but do not lift a finger
it rarely does as it's told.
So I ask myself, what would I die for?
What are the things I cry for?
A list of things come to my mind -my sister
and when I feel they've all left me, I still have my paper and pen.
And God, most of all, and causes I believe in
and obsessions of mine, and anything with
If there's anything on this scar-riddled earth for which I would be willing to
give my life
then they're the very reasons I must continue to
live my life.