Prena Poetry

i walk out of a bar, half drunk and half dissolved in thoughts of you. it feels funny that i still remember your house address from the old library form. i know your dad built that house and your sister was born in one of those room, your whole life revolved around your parents suffering and them still being so happy as everyone sat together for dinner infront of the little tv. i know you once thought you could have control over who you were and who you would be. you believed in your morality when you first spoke to me. you believed you would fall in love and have a family, and perhaps share an epitaph with a lovely lady. but life wasn’t meant to be so lucid for a little middle class boy with dreams bigger than him. you grew, engraving into the enigma of manhood. you began to comprehend the sadness lurking behind your fathers soft advice. your mother’s suppressed trauma leaked into you along with her love, immersing you into the struggle of adulthood and the loneliness it brought you at the end of the day. you learned to love your sister more, and rest your head in your mother’s lap, knowing how much everyone appreciated you and you alone couldn’t do much to give them better. i know you looked for love too, from many different women in many different places. but they were all short lived pleasures, the girl you met after high-school probably broke your heart even if she were a woman so perfect—who loved and lived for the same things you did. you understood the compromises, and the ultimate sacrifies one had to make although it was going to ache till death.



and now, i only see sadness in you. the desperation to live so gravely reflects in those tired young eyes. when escaping the death only redeems like a plausible purpose to pay back the gratitude you owe to time. but then deep inside, you know, it isn’t going to be a life worth it. you are almost afraid, surviving will wear you off to a bare corpse working for retirement money and a pit in the dirt. and yet what more can you do, life ends young for people like us but living doesn’t. and it throbs to come to the ultimate fact that this is what people like us were born for, what we will live and finally die for.