It’s funny how often I’m reminded how lucky I am –
How lucky to have what I have
And how lucky to live the way I live –
But end up passing it as a second thought.
It’s funny how the more luck I have,
The more I find myself resenting it.
It’s funny how many friends I claim to know,
When in reality I hardly know one at all.
It’s funny how I create this image of myself,
But let the fakeness get to me.
It’s funny how I know the problem,
But don’t reach out for the answer.
It’s funny how I think it’s funny,
When it can only be described as sad.
It’s not funny how I break down inside from this overbearing loneliness,
How I contemplate reaching out to someone but never have the will to,
How sometimes insomnia tears my heart apart in those long, cold nights,
How I distract myself with virtual reality and an audience that doesn’t exist,
How I know all this about myself and don’t do anything to make it better.
Sometimes I think I can’t do anything despite the constant urge.
Sometimes I think I’m okay this way.
But most times, I ignore it all together
Hoping someday it’ll just fade away.
It’s been years
And it grows stronger every day.
All of this I look upon as simple selfishness,
That I’m simply overanalyzing my own situation
And ignoring those of others.
I busy myself trying to be helpful in any possible way
Though it may be myself who needs help the most.
I write these poems not to be heard,
but to wallow in my own regret.
I don’t want pity, sympathy, or some so-called advice,
I don’t want anything.
Sometimes it’s not a matter of what I want,
But of what I need.
Right now, I need to back myself away from the verge of tears
And regain composure.
Things are always different from the inside
And I’m the perfect example of that.