by Igore





I write,
I write about myself.
For what else should I write about?
Iím young; I donít really know how the world works.
Iím not very social, only have one real friend.
And even then I may have lost her,
I donít know how others feel, or think.
I donít know much, but I do know myself.
I think this may be a rare thing,
for a person to know who they are,
why they are the way they are,
for whatever the reasons may be.
But I do,
I have a reason for every way I act.
At least I think I do.
I write, I write about what I do.

I write about my pain.
What I write may sound pathetic,
Stupid and small compared to your pain.
But I donít know you,
I donít feel your pain,
I feel my own.
And since I know nothing of anyone elseís pain,
I write, I write about my pain.

I donít really know what this is.
Itís not a essay,
Itís not a poem,
Itís not a story,
I guess the closest thing would be these are my thoughts, and certain events that Iíve been having lately.
Given form in words

You may not want to read this,
You may just skip over this and never give it a second thought.
But I want anyone and everyone to know that this is me,
Not what Iíd like to be
Not what I want to be,
These words are mine,
Right from my mind.
True and unmoving.
Doesnít matter if you believe them,
Doesnít make their truth any less.
I write, I write about my truth.

Iím leaving;
Iím leaving a place that Iíve spent 7 years of my life.
Almost all of that time was spent in unhappy moments.
Either caused by others, or by my own hand.
And I leave in an unhappy moment.

I realize Iím alone.

Alone with no parole.
I have possibly lost my only friend in this world.
Iíve always felt like Iím outside peering into the window, looking in at my family.
I could leave right now, and be forgotten in a week by everyone except maybe my family.
But they are under the illusion that I feel a connection to them.
I donít.
I want to, I want to with every single instinct in my body,
But I donít.
I do not think it, I know it.


Now how do I know Iím alone?

Came to me a couple days ago.
I was sitting in a park, drawing a plant,
The curves, the arches and the texture of the leaves.
I look up and I saw a woman reading to a kid.
Probably mother and son.
But that relation doesnít matter.
Itís what I saw in there faces.

They were smiling,

Doesnít sound special I know,
But I hadnít noticed the feeling that seemed to come out of that.
Happiness, love, caring, and something more

A warmth,

Something that guaranteed that whatever happened in there lives.
They would still love each other,

They would fight,
But he would still count on her to make the monsters go away.
He would say he hates her
But she would still see the love in his eyes

Nothing would separate them,
Even when one does something to break them apart,
That warmth would still be there.

And at that moment, I could almost feel it
I could see it in there eyes and felt it coming off them in waves,
Like sitting next to a fire, you can feel its heat, almost touching it.
It looked like heaven.

Then I realized

I donít have that,
I donít have that warmth in me.
Iíve never felt it.
I canít even imagine what it must feel like.
That emptiness is the worst thing Iíve ever felt.

And then came the blinding rage.

I wanted to scream


Why is it that I have been denied one of the things every child has a right to.
To feel that warmth that I wanted so much.

Iíve never been that angry
Except once.

I donít remember much from my past,
Only important things that stick
I remember I had trust once,
I donít have it now, but Iím sure I remember having it once.
When I was young,

It feels like so long ago.
Though Iím young Iím old,
Pain ages you.

I had it once.
But it was taken away from me.
I know by who, but a name doesnít matter
Just someone that I trusted and loved dearly.
And looked to that person for the warmth I saw between mother and son,
I didnít know it then, But I wanted it and searched for it with anyone that might give it.
I was met with a hand across the face.
My trust was taken,
My love was taken,
All in that second.

Oh donít think I blame that second for my pain now,
To have this much of an affect would take at least three years,
Three years of crying yourself to sleep,
Three years of being chased and yelled at
Three years of feeling alone.
Anymore than that and I might not have made it out.

But I did get out.

It took the second hand to send me packing.
But doesnít mean I was okay,
No definitely not okay,
I think I was eleven then,
when I got out.

And then came the blinding rage.

I was so angry, I didnít even know why,
I didnít know how to deal with it,
So I dealt with it the only way I wasnít allowed to during those three years.

I screamed

It didnít matter if it was a taunt or a push
I screamed,
I screamed against the pain
I screamed at the pain
I screamed for all that had been done to me and more.
I screamed to fill the void the pain had left when it finally faded away.

Iím not screaming anymore.
Iím alone, why would I scream if no one is going to hear it.


And that leads to this final painful moment,
Iím giving up,
Not on life,
Just the hope that one day feel that warmth I saw.

I donít care anymore,
I donít care if I ever have a friend,
I donít care if anyone in this world gives me a second glance.
Doesnít matter to me, because I donĎt matter to you.
Iím faceless to you,
I am no one to you, just another piece of space.

I know some say that Iím blaming everyone else for my problems.
Some will be sad, and say they tried,
Tried to connect with me, bring me out of the darkness
And theyíre right, they did, they tried
but they canít give me something that was never theirs to give.

One thing that still makes me laugh,
Iím happy,
Iím not happy about anything involving me,
Iím happy for all those people I see who have that warmth,
Especially for those who have it and give it back,
Those people I think will have the richest of lives

So I write, I write of myself

I know some would think Iím suicidalÖ

Iím not.

I will live this life.
I will not let this end me.
I have given up on caring,
But I will not be a coward and end my own existence
I will face the void of this world, staring at me with all its terrible pain and suffering
I will stand and stare right back
I will defy it.
I will defy you by not giving in, when you expect me to.
I will live.

I came to the world with everything;
Such is the world that takes away things precious to us.

A person took my trust and love,
This place took my hope,
Leaving me with only rage, hate and sadness
But these I leave with you, I give them to you,
I have no use for them anymore,

Iíll leave with nothing,
And Iíll live.