Priority.

The days where our love eclipsed all else are gone, 
so do not ask me to feel the same again.
Although there was a time when the sun 
solely rose and slept against the horizon of your eyes.

We cannot expect broken glass to ever be the same. 
You're right, my life, that the memories remain. 
But just like a chemical reaction can't be reversed, 
they cannot be changed.

Sure, we could attempt to start anew, 
although you should already know 
how deep my love runs for you. 
And I never thought I'd see the day 
when I placed anything before us. 

But now that I have seen the world's 
true face and all it's ugliness, 
I fear that I have been exposed 
to hatred and mistrust. 

Yes, it's true that the sun still appears 
first in the east before disappearing in the west, 
but that does not mean that the tragedies I've seen 
are ones I can easily forget.

Singularity.

Society seems dead set on causing its single citizens distress, unable to process that self-love could also be a path that leads to happiness.

Placated, and often patronized for being on one's own and not one-half of a pair, as though dining alone is pitiful, and is a fate worse than illnesses that are rare.

One is the loneliest number—our relatives and coworkers remind us like clockwork every day, as they poke, prod then pry, and ask questions why "great guys like us" wake up alone, instead of with some babe.

Despite my attempts to explain that I've finally reconnected with the boy who I lost long ago, their eyes go blank, and they stare open-mouthed,  convinced that I've run out of hope.

After desperately dating for fifteen years, and regularly being reduced to tears, I honestly enjoy my own company, for once, and no longer fear the absence of my peers. 

Still, we are programmed to chase unrealistic interpretations of romance, Instead of being encouraged to first learn how to hold and warm our own hands. 

When every culture conditions us to covet our own versions of their fairy tales, is it any wonder why sadness prevails once our fantasies inevitably fail? 

If we were raised to love ourselves first, we would never forget our worth, and only accept the kind of love that lifts us up, the kind of love that we deserve.

Sardonic Soldier.

Chewed up, spit out and cut down to the quick from too many false starts, 
I'm sick and tired of repeatedly being tricked and then torn apart.
Just because of my training, you deny me my heart, 
as though soldiers were only created to finish wars that you start.
I've been blamed too many times that I keep losing count,
stepped on landmines, and had to stop myself from bleeding out.
Treated like another weapon in your artillery, 
you better get the hell away from me, and my periphery.
You ripped open my chest without warning and carved out my organs, 
replaced all that made me human, 
with worthless purple hearts that were nothing but useless. 
And now all because I'm ruthless you pretend to act all surprised, 
as you let your jaw drop to the ground and you widen your evil eyes. 
Come a little closer, let me show you what I gained from this war, 
aside from this stop-loss syndrome, and a marriage that ended in divorce. 
All the time I was away brainwashed into battling your enemies overseas, 
my once faithful wife was fighting her own battle but all on her knees.
Even if I was just a toy, I would still hate you, 
spit in your face, and then probably even castrate you. 
You wasted my life so don't think I'm gonna spare you, 
I'll do wicked things until I really scare you, 
Take a little anxiety, inject it into your brain 
so you never have the chance to demoralize another human again. 
Salute you? Sir, no, sir, I'd be a fool to, 
do anything but pollute you, 
with the same kind of poison you used to, 
turn me into this monster who will not rest until you're abused too.

Written for a contest that provided Eminem's 'Toy Soldier' as its prompt.

Choices.

I'd rather be 
penniless but happy,
than overflowing with 
riches but miserable.

Much better off alone,
than surrounded by sharks
in a sea of bad company.

I'd rather be a starving artist, 
with no money for his next meal,
than withering away in a career 
where my disappointment 
cannot be concealed.

Better to be grateful 
with the little I have,
instead of blessed 
but oblivious;
no other outcome
could be quite as sad.