#43

It’s quite magical that the visions
I often came to see of myself, far ahead,
suddenly vanished.

I can no longer see myself holding guns blazing
as hordes of invaders come flooding,
as I—
on my own—
hold the final frontier,
the last stand,
the final boss to the conquerors.

I can no longer see myself
bossing people around,
laughing without care
and with the utmost concern for my people’s welfare.
Eyes wide, gleaming—
smiling fake smiles,
laughing fake smiles,
while somehow remaining genuine.
I am the boss of these people;
they are my burden to carry.

I can no longer see myself
holding a bouquet of roses,
face crimson red in deep embarrassment,
maintaining a straight face—
whispering to myself to be nonchalant,
to not show too much,
while the pitch of my tone,
in awkward free verse,
rises.

I can no longer see myself
writing as much—
poetry,
stories,
tales,
lullabies,
and silly notes
that will one day remember me.

I can no longer see myself
making my parents proud,
or everyone who knew me,
everyone whose life
I became a part of.

I can no longer see myself
as a wretched old fool,
wandering aimlessly,
regretting all the things
that should’ve
and shouldn’t have been.

I…
can no longer see myself
living in a world
where life goes on.

As if
I am no longer
part of it.

And only a few things
keep me awake at night—
on my bed—
having second thoughts
whether I should
or see
one more day.

Where have the miracles gone
when they’re needed.

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