Anxious optimism

I’m an anxious optimist –
I’m the embodiment of
‘Hope for the best,
Prepare for the worst’.
I get to believe the best of people
And still be awed and surprised
When things go beautifully
And the world proves me right.
It makes me rediscover goodness
Daily, at times, and feeds back
Into that spiral of optimism,
With just a twinge of worry
That it can’t possibly happen again,
That it needs to peak
And go down sometime.
But that thought brings it down
Just enough to ensure
It never actually happens.
And if it does, of course
That’s what the optimism is for.

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It is fine

When rain pours down dirty windows,
A constant patter of tears,
Snuggle into warm blankets
And repeat after me:
It will be fine.
When the winter snows flurry,
A God-made barrage of cold,
Put more wood on the fire
And repeat after me:
It will be fine.
When the darkness reigns blind,
Reaching long fingers in your soul,
Get up and turn on the light
And repeat after me:
It will be fine.

Repeat it until you believe,
Until you let yourself be strong enough
To actually understand the words.
Because it is fine.
You’re the only one who decides
What is fine and how to make it.
When rain pours, get up and dance in it.
When snow falls, go build a snowman from it.
When darkness abounds, lie down and see the stars.

Our inner compasses break all the time
And we can worry ourselves silly
Thinking how will we survive
When we can’t find our way back.
But it is fine.
Ditch the compass, put on your sturdy boots
And go on the straight unbeaten path,
Letting not a single fear hold you back.
Because, darling, it is only not fine
If you see the past, the problems,
The things that didn’t work out.
But it is fine,
It will always be fine,
If only we go forward instead.

Black boxes

There’s a vault of boxes in the back of my mind,
Many black boxes that within keep confined
All the pain, and the fear, the tears,
Rows building up over years and years
Out of the things I needed to push aside
So I’d keep taking the world in stride.
It might not be healthy, but it’s usually simple
To brush away things like a wayward wrinkle –
It rarely happens, like it did for this one
That they want to fight back, and then try to run.
It might take a while, stuffing it in place
But one way or another it’s fitting the case
It makes the other boxes restless, however
As they brush their ashes and struggle like never.
It’s just a little earthquake, nothing too tough,
It only can make the days bleak and nights rough.
But when it stops, nothing would have broken at the seams –
I’ll just laugh louder for a while to cover the screams.
It’s not sadness, exactly, you see in my eyes.
It’s more like emptiness, for when the lids rise
I don’t have the time to pick through the things
That go in the boxes before I close the springs –
I’d rather end up locking away bits and pieces
Than discover that one of the boxes misses.
You might not understand why this is such a pain
It should be a thought easy to unravel and reign
The problem is that some boxes carry a glimmer,
Something that makes them riot and simmer,
Because, you see, their nightmare is hope
Rather than things you’d hang by a rope.
It’s the most terrible thing to fight against –
For everything else you’re angry, incensed
But hope, when things shout, knows how to sing,
And it makes it impossible for me not to cling –
Instead of fighting its restraints, knows to soften
And makes me break my own nails on its coffin.
So pray for me. Pray that, for a while
You’ll forget you’ve ever seen me smile,
Just until I find other things to smile for
Until I know I have the strength to not open that door.

Battle with myself

I hate it when you hurt, I dread it if you cry,
But sure I am allowed to care for my tears.
Of course I could let it all go, away to fly.
Ignore it all, the pain, all that my soul sears.
Just tell me if that’s what you want and I’ll let go
But still I wish you wouldn’t claim that I be my own shadow
‘Cause, goodness, how I fear I’d really do it so
And lose myself in the world’s dull and boring meadow.
For higher proof it isn’t that your heart wasn’t for me,
Not for the girl, the human, mortal, that always sins and errs,
But for that glassy-eyed perfection of distorted reality,
That not a semblance to my self could ever hope it bears.

And yet, in my deepest of hearts there is another pain,
Another fear, of myself this time, that I wouldn’t be able
To do it all, forget myself, still both my heart and brain,
And this be proved to be just brag of my soul’s unstable
That I’m not so much of an angel as I claim to be,
Not able to put you before, my happiness aside,
That there’d be one small part to say love’s less than me,
And that all my reproach and sadness is unjustified.
How mean of me, to accuse you for seeing angels in my place,
That are so far from who I am, I know they are. And so do you.
But still I am in this unreal quest, interminable chase
To make a martyr of myself, perfection coming true.

And all this while loving life, admiring what I am,
How can I contradict myself so much, how can I suffer such?
And every time I’m given paper I’m starting to condemn
You, life, myself, who cares, since it doesn’t leave a touch?
But now I realise my one and only disappointment,
The one I hid and tried to keep, so lazy and complacent
With which I always do delay that one final appointment,
But to which I can’t quite help but always be adjacent,
Is, plain and simple, just myself. I’m so not what I could,
And what I sometimes wish I was. I am indeed the vestige.
I badly need infinities of love, for making me feel good,
I’m sorry I chose you. But now I’d die, if you happen me neglige.

Please forgive me. For getting caught in the crossfire
Of the battle with myself. I have only one excuse
For risking ruining your life. But I can’t help admire
The light that ever comes from you, that turns my wounds into a bruise.

I tried

I sometimes catch myself with thoughts
Of how to untie the knots
Hurting, tight, of my own dreams
That end never how it seems.

My hope has this certain habit,
Some wild pleasure to cohabit
With unceasing failure
That it always does conjure.

So I find myself with hope
When my mind fails to cope
That it all ends in disaster;
That at least it all ends faster.

Is it normal, this betrayal
Of my destiny, yet frail?
Is it normal to can’t tell
If you want all to end well?

Or you’d rather it all fails
All, from whole into details.
But I wonder, is it worth
To choose between death and birth?

I would rather let unwind
All, and leave in peace my mind.
And to those who say I lied
I will say: at least I tried.