Stop.

Stop scrolling, stop multitasking, stop worrying about what tomorrow holds. Take a deep breath and relax. I can’t say that everything’s going to be “ok” because, simply put, I don’t know you. I don’t know your situation, your life story, and in most cases I may not even know your first name. I’m not a hopeless optimist, but instead a realist who knows that life can absolutely suck. Each day can take it’s toll, breaking your back and sinking you lower and lower until your chin begins to scrape against the concrete.

But it gets better. Ok is relative, measured by a person’s often unrealistic standards and ideals about true happiness. Many measure happiness in objects, wealth, and lavish luxuries. By no means do any of these things guarantee happiness. Instead, try this: for the rest of this week, challenge yourself. Personal happiness is making time to do something you love. Make time in your busy schedule to do things that make you feel all fuzzy and warm inside. Be yourself. Be creative, be spontaneous, be original!

But dear God, please just make time to be yourself. Recently, I’ve started leaving thirty minutes before falling asleep to write. Just writing, with a good old fashioned pen and notebook.

The results are below: my consolidated scribblings, assembled together into an unedited poem. 

I give you,

“Who am I?”

I can be whoever you want me to be.

I’m your best friend, paying for your drink at the bar.

I’m your first love, and hopefully your last.

I’m the last person you think about at night, the one who fills your dreams.

I’m the one you wake up next to in the morning, curled up against your body.

I’m your everything, your only.

I’m yours until the end.

Or, I’m none of these things.

I’m the one who you played like a sad string instrument,

with a broken staff and a shattered bow.

I’m the person you never texted back,

because you knew you had me wrapped around your finger

and that I would never forget what we had so long ago.

I’m the dreamer who can no longer dream,

because you crushed me under your heavy step.

I’m the boy on the bridge.

I’m looking out over the city and the river.

I’m so high, not on love–because you refused to give it to me,

but on expectations and pain killers.

But the only thing they are killing is me.

If you don’t love me let me go.

If I don’t enthrall you like the other boys do, let me go.

Darling, it gets so hard to breathe when you hold me as tightly as you do,

but pull away whenever I get near.

It gets so hard to think when I break down like this,

my form gets sloppy and tears blur these words on the page–

but dear God I pray they don’t blur their meaning.

I don’t know who I am anymore,

and I only have you to blame.

-ZCS

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9 thoughts on “Stop.

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