I
Flight Nineteen
I once thought that I was one of a kind.
Spectacular in many ways, a vision to the blind.
I don’t really know what happened.
I just continued my life, day to day,
but something changed.
It could have been in my heart, maybe my thoughts.
My personality could have turned ugly.
The fact is that I can’t stand this thought.
Some thought of teenaged angst.
Possibly a power hungry mind.
I have lost control of flight nineteen.
My co pilot was sleeping in the hold.
So I crashed.
I survived but I wish I were one of those that were dead.
I stumbled upon a remote piece of land.
It could be tropical, maybe a snowy mountain,
but the fact is,
I am lost.
Body parts of people I once knew are scattered along the wreckage,
along with abstract pieces of metal,
and miscellaneous pieces of luggage of fellow patrons.
I created this mess and I am the one that has to clean it up.
I take full blame.
Thousands of people’s deaths can be laid on my head.
I don’t mind.
I am a million miles away from another person.
It doesn’t matter if I try to explain myself,
the guilt is still the same.
You can tell me I look just fine
But I still see that ugly image of what I am everyday.
I don’t hate what I have done.
I fully accept it.
That doesn’t mean I still can’t look like a monster.
II
The Secrets I Hide
Nobody can know what I did
But the fact is, I do, at this very moment.
You can tell me I’m pretty
even though I have scars all over my body.
It doesn’t matter.
I can think I’m ugly and you can say otherwise,
But it can also go the same way back.
If I feel like monster, why can’t people accept me as one?
I remain perfect in others eyes like some angel.
It’s like I can kill someone in cold blood.
Everybody will think it’s some heartwarming joke.
I can admit it straight to your face and you just laugh along.
Tell me I am doing something wrong.
Please.
Friends tell me I am doing ‘better’.
In fact, I feel worse than I ever did.
I just don’t tell people about it,
like the drama freak I once was.
I can’t think about me in my own life.
It just reminds me how pitiful I am.
So I think of others,
forget about mine.
III
The Realization
I think about my life a lot.
I think about how I live
How I once was.
I never thought things through when I was young.
Now I do.
I used to do what was best for me.
I don’t think I am capable of that anymore.
Whatever is wrong with me,
it is making me unable to take care of myself as a body.
I can be extremely efficient with money.
I understand economics.
I understand sociology.
I have great reasoning
I can effectively problem solve.
I could be the smartest man in the world, which I am far from.
Everyone has his or her faults.
I may be excellent with minimal effort,
on any thing that I can manage to touch,
no one is perfect.
I may be great or sad or however you see me,
but I am not perfect.
Then ask me what I am not good at.
I can’t take care of myself.
IV
As I Die Slowly
I can deal with many deaths over my head my head.
It’s the wreckage I can’t handle.
I would just sit amoung the rubble.
I can help you with anything ethical.
It’s the ethical things in my life I can’t do.
I can help people get through major disabilities.
I can’t even take care of myself when I have a cold.
I can help you up and clean your cuts and scrapes.
I cant even clean out my infected wounds.
I know of this and I know what I am supposed to do,
but I cant.
Something in my body just stops me from helping myself.
If I just isolated myself from the world,
I would not eat,
not even sleep.
I would be dead by the end of the week.
Now that I am becoming independent in my life,
I can do so many things,
but if there is nobody by my side.
Someone who can take care of me.
I would be dead before anyone would hear my name.
This is my curse,
this is what keeps me up at night.
It is slowly eating my insides.
I don’t even care.
