Life

When we’re all alone,
Sitting in a room,
It’s pitch black,
Silent,
Tears spread down a pure face,
The face is dead,
No emotion,
No warmth,
This is me,
This is my life.

Terrifyingly cold,
This…
It eats me alive,
It hushes,
Shushes,
Violates every breath,
Silent sound,
Child’s cry,
Every little movement.

Heartwarming,
This…
It buries you in arms,
It brings a banana split eating grin to faces,
Sings to the sun,
Spoken words of satisfaction,
A child’s laughter,
Pitter-pattering feet of joyful dances.

This is Life.
It breathes into us,
Speaks words to our minds,
Moves us like little puppets.

Life…
What does it mean?
Is it just a word?
Or,
Is it what we are?
A gentle life…
A harsh life…

What are we?
To me we are who we are,
Our lives are what we make of them;
Whether that be depressed and dark,
Or happy and light.

Though we can be a mixture of things,
A mixture of emotions,
Although most times life doesn’t let us be just one thing,
It gives us twists and turns,
Almost like a maze or a game,

Each one of us life’s,
They’re all different,
Little details to plentiful features,
But even though life can be easy,
We mustn’t fall into the happy pattern,

Because life,
Is wicked.
It’s cold and dark.
It likes to thrash us around,
Make us evil and corrupted,
It likes to grab our soul and….
Squeeze…
Until we can’t breathe anymore and we just fall in a pit of darkness.
To life,
We are puppets in a show called
‘Life.’