Mar Desal Poet Free verse

Why?

Sometimes I feel like I live too far away from the world.

As if I were floating somewhere in the universe,
looking down at how small life seems,
how small we are,
how desperately we insist on existing
as if tomorrow were a promise
and not simply another day to survive.

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t want to cry.
I don’t want to scream.
I don’t want to disappear.

And yet,
there are nights when I wish I didn’t have to be here.

Why me?

Why is it so difficult to find
that little place inside myself
where I can finally rest?

Why can I find relief for everyone else
but never seem to find it for myself?

Why is it so difficult to believe
that I could be enough, too?

I know I should be.
I know.

But my world seems determined
to convince me otherwise.

Every step feels like a failure.
Every attempt,
another piece of evidence
that I am not capable.

And even the beautiful days
seem to have a cruel way
of turning into nights of drinking,
tears,
and silence.

What good is having all the money in the world
if I cannot feel happy
inside my own body?

What good is it?

What good is proving to everyone
that I am okay,
that I can do everything alone,
that I don’t need anyone,
when secretly,
I am still waiting for someone to tell me
that I don’t have to prove anything?

Sometimes I am frustrated
that I have no talent.

I am frustrated that I cannot paint
the pictures I imagine.

I am frustrated
that there are so many things
I simply cannot do.

I am frustrated with feeling useless.

Frustrated with never being chosen.

Frustrated that even being a good person
doesn’t always mean
being loved.

And I am frustrated with writing,
because even when I try
to turn my pain into words,
a part of me whispers
that I cannot even do this right.

Maybe that’s why I write.

Because if I cannot save myself,
at least I can leave here
the pieces of me
that are still trying to speak.

God,
I am so tired.

Sometimes I wish I were dead.

And other times,
I think maybe I am already dead inside,
living in a prison
I once built
to protect the people I loved.

And now,
that same prison
has become my little refuge.

Four walls.
A bed.
A heart hiding
from the weight of itself.

I have to keep smiling.

Because everyone knows
the happy person I am.

I have to prove it.

I have to laugh.
I have to move forward.
I have to be able to do it alone.

Because it feels like the world
doesn’t allow me to admit
that I am tired.

As if I have to kill a little piece of myself
every day
just to prove that I am still alive.

And here I am.

With resentment toward myself.
With anger.
With questions that refuse to disappear.

Why can’t I move forward?

Why can’t I be happy?

Why can I make so many people happy
and still never find a way
to make myself happy?

Why can I love everyone else
so easily,
but when it comes to me,
all I know how to find
are my flaws?

Why does loving myself
feel like learning a language
no one ever taught me?

And why does hating myself
feel like speaking my native tongue?

Maybe someday
I will stop asking myself
why I am not enough.

Maybe someday
my own voice will become louder
than every voice that told me I couldn’t.

Maybe someday,
among all the things
I still don’t know how to do,
I will learn one:

how to stay.

Not because I have to smile.
Not because I have to prove anything.
Not because I have to be strong.

But because,
even if I cannot see it today,

maybe my life
still has a place
where I can rest.

And maybe,
someday,
I can become that place
for myself.

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