Dear Self

Life’s gotten a bit better, but it feels like I’ve still got it worse.
Even after time I feel it still hurts.
How am I meant to pick myself up and fight?
How am I meant to make it work?
These brutal beatings of my former life
Still cut jagged lines threw my fear stricken subconscious mind.
What? Does the world think I’m blind?
Dear Self, I wish there was a pill I could pop to make my life subside.
My life’s not right,
So can you truly blame me for thinking that my very existence is cursed?
I’ve still got it worse.

I’m starting to feel as though I’ve gotten the short straw,
Because I’ve been denied everything I’ve fought for.
I wish that I could retire from this life
Or maybe even get denied the right of life,
So I may quit from this employment or hopefully get fired,
Because the Lord knows I’m tried.
Dear Self, what do I do when my own laws are defying me,
When my own fighting spirit is fighting me?
What is the very purpose of me bleeding
My hollow sorrow onto the empty pages of this diary,
When it is clearly seen that my own emotions are viciously spiting me,
Provoking me, righteously, to look inside of me?
Then tell me what is left
Over after my own insecurities create an internal rift?
This all down-plays, rather than uplifts my self-pity and grief.
So what do I then do when my whole philosophy is truly screwed?
So what do I then do when my soul tends to betray itself?
I ask that you answer me this,
Dear Self.