Tell Me Now, Young Soul. Does It Hurt? Being the Outsider?

It’s okay, I’ll be the outcast
Once again.

And I’ll be fine. 

I’ve been there so many times and
I can do it one more time.
It’s my fault. Oh, yes, I know this.
I always push them away.
While they laugh and have a great time,
I lay bricks and raise my walls
Higher, higher, all the way up.
I choose this. I’m fine. I’ll smile.

My heart aches. Lumps start to gather
In my throat. I’m not okay.

Yes, from time to time I choose to
Take a peek through my grey wall,
Throw some words and try to take part
In the warmness they all share.
 
But these baby steps are never
Quite enough. They’re far away
And I’m far behind, no matter
How much I try to catch up to them.

It’s okay now. You can do this.
Toughen up. Smile through the pain.
You’ve always been the outsider,
What’s the difference that another
Small brick would now truly make?

22

Another day comes to an end,
Another year of my life.
I look down at my hands again
And stare in desolation.

The life I build with these two hands
And with the power of my mind
Just seems to pass me by so quick
Without the presence of my heart.

I feel the moment, though I don’t,
Only deceived by my own eyes.
I live and breathe and my heart beats
And yet fulfillment I can’t find…

Another day comes to an end,
Another year of my life.
Yes, I’m the birthday girl today,
But I won’t be tomorrow…

– Patricia

The Small Things in Life

Another one of those rare days
Has come again. Another year.
I look down at my feet again,
The river—cool and quiet.

Barefoot, enjoying warmth and sun,
I sit here by the river. I
Listen to soothing whispers and
Enjoy the sound of silence.

The river comes, the river goes,
The sun-kissed leaves of trees so green
Blow in the wind. And I am free:
This moment is my blessing.

I’m turning twenty-two today.
The hour glass keeps pouring sand,
And yet as I am here right now,
The moment stops. It’s timeless.

– Patricia

Childhood Home and Summer Nights

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I hear the crickets chirp and I
Know that I’m home again.
Cycling on peaceful hills—so green—
I remember who I am.

I feel the moment—future, past
Don’t cross my mind at all.
I live in the now, so free and calm,
Nature—so beautiful.

The bright full moon governs the night,
Shining so close to me
Against the darkness of the sky;
I thus now feel at ease.

The scent of freshly scythed grass
Gives me forgotten peace
And I can feel that once again
I’ve known eternal bliss.

The night—so quiet and so warm—
Promises freedom, dance.
I had forgotten what was home
And now I have returned.

I feel alive and know myself,
Here on the peaceful hills.
This is the world I’ve always loved,
The world of real dreams.

– Patricia

Anthem of a Generation

We could be outside in the lovely green meadows,
Enjoying the bright morning sun.
Yet we choose the path that leads us to darkness,
A world for us to sulk and be sad.

We could be outside—and we are. Don’t you see us?
We’re stepping right into the light.
Yet darkness we choose and we offer it shelter
Into our weakened hearts and our minds.

And some of us have all the reasons to smile,
And none to be sad, none at all.
And yet this is what we have always been close to,
Anxiety ruling our minds.

Depression and sadness—we’ve known them forever,
We choose their familiar scent.
Self-love is a stranger. We don’t want to get closer
To what is unknown. We are home.

Yes, we could be happy, excited, ecstatic,
And at times we truly are so.
But we always come back to the grey and the static,
It’s what we have always called home.

True, we could be happy. There’s no reason not to. But
Hey, where’s the sadness in that?
Empty we are and we’re fine. We are happy,
For
We’re the generation that loves being sad.

Crossroads

Yet again she found herself struggling to keep fighting.
She stood still at the crossroads, breathing in and sighing…
“Do I see the point in this? Do I keep on going?
Do I stop chasing this dream? Do I keep on hoping?”

More and more she found herself weaker and just wanting
To cease all that she had tried, throw a pity party
For herself and only so. No one seemed to care for
That one dream she hoped to achieve which had made her world-weary.

“Is it worth it? I don’t know… I’m so lost and tired…
And if not, what do I do? This is what I desired…”
Pondering upon the way which would give her meaning,
She decides so: “One more time, I will keep on dreaming…”

– Patricia

Oblivion

Down in the valley of the shadows,
Where scattered skeletons resided,
No green grass grew, no peaceful meadows,
Only the mist of those misguided,
Their remnants: doomed to lasting silence.

No sound escaped the nameless graveyard,
No echo told the world beyond it
The screams of those who entered blindly
And never came back—shh, the silence
Is sacred. Words don’t go unpunished.

The more they screamed, the more they suffered,
Only prolonging what awaited.
The more they ran, the more they valued,
As all their efforts brought more shadows,
The hunt—more interesting each moment.

Forever doomed to be forgotten,
Their names—never called to remembrance.
No memory of them existed
Once they entered the endless valley,
With no way out, the silence—timeless.

Down in the valley of the shadows,
With silent screams and lonely remnants,
No spark of life was left untainted
By gruesome creatures who all wanted
The hope, relief and peace it carried.

– Patricia

Creation and Mould

I want to write the stories of the old,
To tell the lives of people—long ago,
I want to write new stories to be sung,
Of old and new, the future and the past.
I want to write and write. Yet I stay still…
The quill is white and silent. I am mould.

I want to write the feelings which are born
Inside the carcass which contains my soul.
I want to tell the feelings of all those
Surrounding me—their sorrows and their joys.
I want to write—the paper lies untouched…
The quill is white, unmoving. I am still.

I want to write: the universe, the stars,
The galaxies—all sworn to secrecy,
The world within and all those which exist
Between reality and never-ending dreams.
I want to write, to leave their legacy…
The quill is white, untainted by my touch.

I want to tell the journey of the soul
With all its unmasked facets—as it is.
I want to write the many thoughts I have,
To write them down, thus giving birth to words.
I want to write—the paper shines so bright…
The quill is white, so close yet far away.

It seems as though my fingers are too dark
To want to taint the pure and silky white.
My thoughts are thus imprisoned in my mind,
Too dangerous to ever be set free.
So, I wait—still, dark as the never-ending night…
The quill is white. We’re silent. I am mould.

– Patricia

Acrostic

A challenge is born in the quiet night,
Creation belongs to the curious mind.
Rejoicing in limits—for they set him free,
Of another world. The poet thus breathes.
Surreal the peace which governs the world,
The storm that’s inside him to thunders gives birth.
In moulding the tight chains, he knows he is free,
Creating his rhythm towards liberty.

– Patricia