Life Is What You Make It (3)

I frequently think about my life, what I want to accomplish, what I’ve done so far, and how long I have to do everything I dream of. This is a series featuring things I’ve written about such things, both poetry and prose.

This post contains profanity and mentions suicidal thoughts. If you are not comfortable with such things, feel free to skip this post.

[Don’t Forget] Low Self-Esteem and a Desire to be Remembered

18 September 2016

I don’t have a very

high self-esteem,

I don’t put much stock

in that I’m a human being.

I know that I’m valued,

worth a motherfucking bunch,

But it doesn’t always feel that way —

like when a bully steals your lunch.

I don’t very much love myself

any which way.

I easily find myself

depression-ly swayed.

I try to avoid

such dark, self-hatred filled thoughts,

But they sometimes come up

and shred me apart.

I find myself wondering

“what more can I do?”

I find myself wondering

if life’s worth living through.

I feel as though I’ll waste my life,

fuck everything over,

I don’t get to live twice.

That’s not an excuse

to “have a fun time,”

Or “eat, drink, and be merry,

for tomorrow we die,”

Because I want my life

to be worth remembering.

I don’t want to be forgotten

or remembered because

My life was lived rotten.

I want my time used best it can,

none of it, no moments,

left to fester in the trash can.

It’s a lot of pressure

I put on myself,

when I want my life story

to not rot on a shelf,

With no one caring what all I did,

with no one caring if I even lived.

I could be made up,

for all they may know,

So for evidence, what will I have to show?

I don’t want my story

to just be mistakes,

Or for it all to just have been a waste.

If it’s not worth

recording, reading, remembering, or reliving,

Is there even a point

to my life continuing?

Death is inevitable,

should I even try?

I want so badly to know

if I’ll really use my time,

But I won’t know that

until I’ve lived my life.

Right now, right now

I could not, would not

die satisfied

That my life was worth

all the time I spent

Making it what it is,

Wouldn’t die satisfied

that I’ll be remembered

For too much longer

after I’ve died.

Even if someone

published all that I’ve written,

I’d still be forgotten,

Forget having never been smitten

or ever in love,

That doesn’t matter so much to me

As my life story

being worth  my time,

being worth remembering.

I’ve been told I’m a good poet,

so maybe, just maybe,

There’s something to that

and my life won’t,

at least not in its entirety,

be forgotten and allowed to rot

in the annals of history’s

ever-growing bookshelf.

 

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