To love is to live

My darling
Do you know
The questions life poses?
The answer love gives
If you receive it clearly?
To what extent does my love grow,
If I die today,
Would I be resented?

My darling,
It is not the effort do die for it,
That takes a toll on the strongest of as all.
It is to live,
For you,
For us,
That tests the resolve of any man.

Fall of humanity

It was not an hour of pain,
They were just lining up,
And the questions remained the same.
To who we shift the guilt,
Which people were to blame?
I just stood by the side,
Never knowing same,
What kind of life gives you a chance to dismay?
Seek the prophet, but never listen what to say,
I came around to some conclusions,
But they weren’t bright and tame,
Who am I to say,
Which person has what part to play…

Look around and you’ll see,
We are all in the same game,
Some of us are winners,
But all losers to fame,
What point is this life,
If it is not to pass away?
The only thing we do right,
And yet we fear the same.

Come around and think,
Change will not run our way,
Years have past by,
And we haven’t learnt to pray,
Many tears run and sorrow clips us stray,
Lie, cheat and hurt,
For amusement of others pain,
Are we human or are we just a prey?
With all of our mistakes,
Are we here to stay?

The matter of the heart

I am a poet of pain
Behind my word of the dark,
hope lingers,
sits and waits.

Your eye strikes a narrow path,
Mind assuming the worst and the low,
Branding my heart broken,
My mind dismayed.

But behind my dark words,
There is a light, trapped.
I seek only an equal in pain,
A broken piece of my two.

Love to me stands a riddle,
Unknown,
As the biggest lie we seek to grasp.
What I desire is not passion,
What I crave is not the matter of the heart.

I seek merely your compassion,
Your understanding of the damage done.
As inner peace is more valid,
Then any matter of the heart.

POW: The unexpected life

I honestly don’t know how some of you manage to balance things! With day jobs, personal life and what not, I get it there is still time to write and do your thing, but is there a scenario where I don’t lose my sanity? Is it just just me or do you as well when you got at a certain point in writing, start to hate your day job (or hating more in my case) where you just want to get through the day and hurry home to write? They say the best ideas come when you are sitting on a toilet seat (or so I heard) but in my case they come when I am at work, I hurry up to hide from my boss so I can quickly open the notepad app and write a thing before my mind goes completely blank.

How life twists

It is strange to look back to where we were few years back and compare it to now. Sure we all made our fare share of mistakes, nudged a few inches of our path going astray, but man, for better or for worse, did any one of us think we would end up doing or pursuing things we are right now? Even in my busy schedule I managed to take some old trash from my room and while getting some boxes away I found a piece of paper. Must have been tucked away for years, probably written while I was still in high-school and on it, a blurb. Years ago, I remember writing stories on paper, old school by hand and this was one of those fragments of my past. The blurb of course was incomplete and messy, but the story itself not half bad. I must admit, lately I have fallen on some hard times, doubting myself if I can even do this, balancing work which now I have 10 hours of daily without a day off and just in general fighting depression. But seeing what young Harry wrote gave me hope. I sat on the floor, griping that old piece of paper and just laughing, almost even bursting into tears. It gave me joy, understanding, that even before I had dreams, aspirations. That was my ammo to fight back the depression that keeps on asking, questioning my ability of doing this, with the words “Are you even good?” constantly ringing in my ears. What I learned so far is that life has a sense of humor, a sense of irony particularly. I am constantly pressed down by my mistakes and everyone with mental illness will know it’s a battle each day. Even when you win (and you don’t always win) the pain is still there, the burden never goes away. I don’t like to speak about it, yet I made a promise to myself that I will get more personal. This became a therapy of sorts for me. Is it working? Perhaps, but like I said each day is a battle.

Am I alone out there?

Don’t worry won’t speak again about how when we fight our own demons we often tend to think we are alone in this fight, which it doesn’t have to be the case. No… As I was watching that piece of paper I remember fondly about the stories I created in my mind, my vast imagination running free and unshackled. By that time I thought how hard would be to write a book and I did try but never had the proper motivation. I remember when I was 11 I was at my old potato of a PC trying to write each day. Damn, if anyone told me back then how competitive this all is and how writing a book and pouring your soul into it is not even 50% of the whole process, who knows if I would write the first one. I remember how alone I was back then and how alone do I feel now. Perhaps that’s why it gets to me, when I post something here or on twitter and I get no response, perhaps that’s what makes the question of am I really even good louder… But perhaps it’s not just me. Perhaps there are more of you, who fight with the same questions I do as well. Well, I admire you, knowing what toll it takes on a human body, soul and mind, as the heart begins to break, bit by bit. But presented with a choice of that question, what are we to do? To just give up after our heart literary went in our work? No, of course not. We do the only thing we can, the only thing we know how to do. We bite our teeth, pushing forward. Because we know what’s behind, waiting for us. And everything, even the risk of a heartache, is better than that.

The attitude of a loser

To my firends I seem overconfident because I say I will make it, I will be big. The truth is, it’s not my ego speaking but my pain. For years I tried to be more than no one, applying for countless jobs I can find and failing just because I wanted a career, a meaning. Like all of us I strive for meaning. I was told I won’t be anyone, I will die alone somewhere in a ditch. That’s the reason of my confidence. Its not a fake one, no. After I applied for jobs as all of my firends finished uni or had great careers even if I got to the next round of interviews and was close to getting it, it was the pain of telling them over and over again “Oh I didn’t get it…” that killed me. One by one I saw it in their eyes the same words many people spoke to me over the years. You won’t be anyone. You won’t matter. Perhaps it is the fear of those words, that I never won’t forget, that planted the seed for my depression. But perhaps those words, which will always follow me, are what make me say “Always forward!”

Still keeping up with it,

Harry.

Your beautiful love

It is a beautiful love,
The one untainted,
Thoughts of future and the burden of past.

Where eyes meet together,
Bonding of arms and closeness of heart,
When the pain becomes one,
Dread disappears,
Problems stay,
But hope lingers.

And in that moment,
Fear fades, irrelevant,
Obscure,
With hands held,
Greeting the dawn of the new day,
And with it,
Fresh hope that it brings.

Her fear, mine.
My burden, her choice to carry.
Whatever the new day brings,
Be it a red sunrise,
Or a dark eclipse,
Two hearts beat as one,
In an endless musical of life.
In its grand scale,
Peripheral,
To them,
Everything.

With old age Wisdom came

Beaten by the sands of time I stand,
Waiting for the moment,
A stroke of luck.

They told me with age wisdom came,
And I waited, eagerly,
Just to never arrive.

With the passage of time,
Only scars remained.
Bruises, cuts and gashes,
To tell the tale of bad luck.

Now aged and battered,
I sit and wait,
Wondering…
To what it all came up…

Suffering of fools

Not to my liking
The mask worn, cracked.
Scars of the silent pain,
Never seen.

What horror does it hide,
Untold beauty of suffering,
Held by nothing,
By will and devotion.

Played in the rules of society,
Ridiculed by the ones who suffer the same.
I ask the question,
To those who feel the same pain,
Whose words pierce my weary heart,
Is kindness so estranged,
By you,
The ones who understand
The agony of life?

POW: Secret talent of doing nothing

They say no one is going to doubt you or criticise you more than… Well you! And boy were they right! The summer heat is here and I am dying but with it I somehow become a master procrastinator. Truly it’s a skill I mastered, I know beside my day job I consider writing not just a passion but a second job as well! But truth be told, leave me in an empty room, take away Netflix, Xbox even the Euros (it’s coming home!) and I would still lay down on the ground, look at the ceiling and be mesmerised by it! I need help…

The art of doing nothing

I need to do stuff! The blog ( which we passed 1k views, thank you for that!), the upcoming book and the one I am currently writing, I want to take seriously. I was half assing things till now, but I promised to myself to finish two tasks till the end of the year. 100 subscribers on the blog and finishing the new book by September. So far I am fairly consistent when it comes to my blog, we crossed the half way mark to that magical 100 number. And the book is progressing just… fine? 20ish pages done, but with the Euros and the heat coming over to distract me, things got really… difficult…  My AC unit just lost its will to live and left this world, so right now I am stuck, just me and this unrelenting heat.

Feeling every single mosquito bite and the occasional warm breath of the wind ( I swear summer is doing it on purpose) I still find myself laying on my bed and looking into the empty void of the ceiling.  Usually I would blame the occasional depressing thought passing by and preventing me to do anything productive, but no! I keep on zoning out, looking at nothing. At least I kept my one talent, professionally doing nothing.

The awkward interaction

With what little free time I have I started to do something I previously despised, spending more time on social media. True, it’s a useful tool when it comes to writing, but I want to make friends and connect with people, especially with other writers, but being an introvert with depression,  you can imagine how well that turns out to be. But hey, if you see me around, tweeting semi-funny stuff, say hi, don’t be a stranger! These days social media is a must have, especially for us writers, as promotion and advertising, the hell it brings, is done mostly online. But I feel like most of us (or just me) are put in the vast and unknown space (sometimes weird plane) of social media, left to our own devices to fight out of the sea of many. But then again you can’t over do it, because people will get tired quickly of you just saying one thing over and over again, even if it’s your book. I don’t know maybe it’s just me, but I feel like it’s a part of writing that feels all but writing, a part that is mandatory yet feels unnatural. If there is any veteran writers who can help me navigate these uncharted waters, do contact.

Hit and miss

One of the reasons I am fairly reluctant on engaging people is the lack of response. Yea I know I ain’t the funniest person out there, definitely not the most interesting, but I do have my moments. I am still new to Twitter and, like all, I am still learning but it happens that from time to time I say something and I get the all known crickets as a response. Ah yes, the awkward silence, feeling the fictional tumbleweed rolling. And got to admit, it kinda hurts, you get the feeling of why do I even try. It might be the mighty Twitter algorithm that is mostly responsible for it, but like with everything in this line of work thay comes to strike you down to the pits of discouragement, we need to pull forward. Be it harsh criticism, doubt in our own work or skills or the lack of response we get when we try to engage with people, this job will test your self belief and it will make you trust in yourself more, even if at times it won’t seem like it.

When all fails, you won’t

Sure procrastination comes easy and it is easier to get lost in doing nothing so we forget to even start. But just remember, it was you who was at the beginning of all. You started this journey. Only you have the means to continue it. Taking a break is fine, even when we are just overwhelmed by the sheer tasks we face, be it promoting, writing new stuff or like me just connecting with people, it is important to catch a breath and remember why you started this in the first place. Sit. Relax. Find a way to vent it all out. I found that writing a once a week segment to get personal to 2,3 people who read it (hi you magnificent humans) does the trick! But remember why you do this and that there is only forward. Don’t dwell on the past, accept it and act in the present for your better future!

Final words of encouragement

I will try to cut it short. The blog just passed 1k views and I am eternally grateful for all of your support! I know I post more or less just poetry which is my medicine against depression and it works. But POW (Process of writing) is this project for me to try and open up, write more personal stuff and try to connect to more people. I thank you all, no matter how few of you are, that share this journey with me! And seeing the site grow, I can only hope to grow alongside it and perhaps to revive a few decent projects that were put on hold. But until then, I will just go pull my fridge near my desk and keep its door open. Don’t judge, I need to get crafty! Till next time, wishing you a great start of the weekend,

Harry.

I became the storm

I feel the rumbling storm approaching…
The thunder pounding, like a hammer on an anvil,
It tears and rips through the darkness.
The wind howling, in its way it strikes all,
As the black clouds descend.
In the middle of it all…
I stand…
Feeling the rain on my cheek,
As the thunder speaks to me…
It tells a tale of remembrance,
It speaks of a future yet unknown.
I stand and listen,
Every word,
Every whisper,
Every thought…
As it collides and shifts,
One movement becomes many,
I feel it…
For the heart it sings,
Striking and tempting,
Throwing a tantrum of a spark,
To ignite the will that sat in darkness for so long…

I am the impending storm…

Locked past

You,
Who yearns for my presence,
Sending sweet whispers of memories,
Like wine, intoxicating, remembering every
Embrace,
Kiss,
Thought…

Never forgotten, always remembered,
We meet in that brief moment,
When the night sky envelopes,
On the last tick of the clock,
On the plains of our own creation,
What once was,
Now in my arms held…

With eyes locked,
I will share my passion for farewell,
To you,
Who came before,
Holder of memories,
Keeper of my secrets,
With eyes on the horizon,
Knowing where you lay,
My truth of all love.

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