Wasted Tears

     So many thoughts enter my head, but then escape me when I go to bed.  Can't find the words to say all the things that come my way.  So I keep my mouth shut, cry over a paper cut, and write what I feel, but it all seems unreal.  It's all an illusion, so why run when you're afraid?  I prayed, but I don't know why, because nobody answers my cry.
     We jump up just to crash down again; there is no way to win.  The only way to cross the finish line is to hang yourself on a vine, or die some other way.  We'll all cross that finish line someday.
     But that's not winning.  Die and go back to the beginning.  Or just have everything end.  What's the point in it, friend?  When you can never win, it's the same thing again and again.  The only thing that changes is time, it acts like a mime as it silently flows by, one day making us die.
     It all hurts inside, but still I lied and said I was okay, even though I'm dying day by day.  Everything changes yet stays the same.  We all beg for fame, yet say love is the important thing.  We're pawns but want to play king.
     Nobody seems to understand.  Nobody lends a helping hand.  We're all drowning in air, and breathing in water that's not there.  Nothing is real, no matter what we feel.
     I have to tell myself this or else, everything around me melts in tears.  There are so many fears.  So many reasons to cry; someday we'll all die.  That's the end of the story; there is no happily ever after for me, or anyone else in this world.  We get our hair curled when it's straight and straighten it when it's not.  We pay to make the cold hot, and make the hot cold.  We call ourselves bold, but we never are.  We're trapped in tar that's white as glass, but it will all pass.
     Because, as everyone knows, time fly's by . . . it goes.  And with it goes life, someday it'll end our strife.  And then what?  I try to shut the emotions out, try not to shout, or cry, over the fact that we all will die.  Every day's the same, but someday the sun will set the world aflame, or go out and everything will freeze, a cold or a hot breeze.  Will everything be made to burn, or will the world freeze and stop it's turn?
     Oblivion is on it's way, come to snuff us out one day, so what's the point in living?  Taking or giving?  It all gets taken in the blink of an eye; we all will die.  But I suppose that's okay.  Why have it any other way?  Because if we lived forever, why would we do anything clever?  We'd just stay the same for eternity, taking everything for granted you see.
     So we will all die someday, somehow.  So it's okay if I die now from this sickness inside of me; it's better than living for eternity.  Though that is a bit of a lie, because I don't really want to say goodbye.  Not yet anyway, but someday.  I can't help it if that day comes sooner than it should, sooner than I would want to have it end, but it's okay, friend.  Because I am glad for the short life I have had.  It is truly okay if my sickness makes me die today, or in one hundred years.  I won't waste my time here with tears.