I write
For all the wrong reasons.
I have
So much within me
That I want to write,
But never feel able
To transfer to paper.
When I am at my best
I throw myself
Into all things
Which require it,
Leaving no time
For something
As trivial as writing.
When I’m busy
Writing feels
Like a selfish,
Gluttonous
Waste of time.
I write
Mainly for myself,
And rarely share
What I create.
I think
It’s finally time
To admit to myself
Just how unhappy I am.
I am in a position
Where I feel powerless.
Like I’m living a life
That is not my own.
I am powerless
To change anything
Without ruining the lives
Of those around me.
I am
In a position
Where I must choose
Between my own personal happiness,
Or the happiness of my family.
Worst of all,
I don’t even know
If my family
Are truly happy.
They perpetuate
The existence
That they have lived
But for no reason
(That I can see)
Other,
Than the fact that
That is the way they have
Always done things.
But if the life I lead
Is not my own,
Then the decisions
That I may have
The power to make,
Are not just my decisions.
As long
As my family need me
To sacrifice
Myself for them,
I must do so,
Without hesitation.
For it is only when they
Are able to see the need
To free us all
From the situation
They hold us in,
That we will ever
Truly be free.
Without the blessing
And agreement
Of the family,
We can never move on
Or apart,
As the structure
Which we currently have
Will never return
Once abandoned.
And while we will no longer
Be bound by responsibility,
We will still remain
Bound by guilt.
My family were loving, but at the same time, very “hands off.” I count myself lucky in that.
Life seems to be about balance,
Even the ones you love most,
Can displace you.
To have nothing, or to have everything?
Happiness lies in the grey areas of life,
To find it,
One must find their balancing point.