Trying too hard

Not my best work (in my opinion), but since I'm panicking 'cause I feel like I'm not writing enough that's all you're gonna get today. Enjoy your reading!
Trying too hard.
Know that I'm trying too hard.
Except
how do I know when it's too much?
So many different opinions
-is it controversial?
who's gonna tell me
whether I'm doing enough
or wasting time
or not doing enough
-not even nearly enough
'cause my best is just that useless?
who's gonna tell me?
Know that I'm trying too hard.
Too hard to breathe, at least,
but what does it mean?
      what does it matter?
Too hard to sleep, at least,
but who's gonna care?
I tell myself to
know that I'm trying too hard
and answer with a scolding
'cause too hard just isn't good enough
and my best doesn't matter at all
and the only thing that matters is out there
-I don't know what it is,
but it's out there
and as I keep on searching I tell myself
that trying too hard
just isn't good enough
and I scold - scream to myself
as I fade to nothing
that I should try too hard
-but it just isn't good enough.

Imaginary Friend. -Ch. 4

I have so much time to waste that I'm actually able to write even after spending the whole day procrastinating. This quarantine is really working magics, isn't it?

The next morning I wake up to the car noises in the street. The alarm didn't wake me, a bit of sunlight passing through the window did. I check the phone. 6:43.
It's not like I'm going to fall asleep again anyway, so I get up and have some breakfast. I notice that something is wrong only when I sit down. The note is usually here on the table, but it's not now. It must be somewhere else. Maybe it's still among my books. It must be.
I can't swallow another bite. I have a bad feeling about this.
My bad feeling is confirmed when, after searching literally anywhere, I come up empty-handed. There's something wrong. The note did exist. It did. I saw it, Andrea saw it. The imaginary-friend-look-alike saw it. They did. They must have.
By the time I'm in class I'm a little better, but the weird feeling doesn't leave me alone. There's something wrong. I'm still uneasy through the whole lesson, but I calm myself down thinking that I'll be asking Andrea about it later today.

I'm waiting for her in front of the library, trying to read a book to kill time. I've been stuck on the same sentence for the last five minutes because I can't focus.
-Hey, what's with that face?- she asks as soon as she sees me. -Are you that sad I'm leaving?
-What?
-Don't tell me you don't remember,- she pouts.
-Well...- I've had enough to think about during these last days, I can't be expected to remember what's happening to her as well.
-You're a terrible friend. I'm leaving these evening, I'll be back next Monday.
-Right! Your parents! I'm sorry, it totally slipped my mind.
-So it seems. You alright?
-Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about stuff.
-Want to talk about it?
-Not really.- It's not like I'd know what to say.
-As you wish.
We take our places inside, but I notice her sneaking glances at me every now and then.
-What is it?- I ask after a while.
-Nothing. You just seem distracted, it's not like you. Wanna take a break? Go outside?
-Sure,- I nod. It's not like I'm getting anything done anyway.

First Person.

This one is a little personal even for me, but since I don't think anyone I know in person reads this blog anymore it should be alright. Enjoy your reading!
Someone told me -you did-
that my best writing is in first person.
I've been using I since then
and I don't remember when
it started sounding so natural, the only way
and I started writing about me more than I may.
And it sounds so pompous, so wrong,
as if I sing only one song.
And it sounds so weird, so unknown.
But now you don't answer that phone
and I guess someone should listen to me
or I should talk at least, you see
-it's not like you always listened anyway
and I'll admit, these days I'm not that gay,
so what does it cost me writing yet another word?
I didn't mean to write to you tonight,
I wanted to listen to a song.
But by now we now I'm not that strong
and some days I just need to write
-even if it's to the wrong person.
I'm sorry. Love u.
I don't think I'll write to you anymore
even if I write in first person, but please ignore
any slip-ups that may happen -you know me.
I know I'll write more, but I'll let you be.
Thank you for reading! 
I was wondering: do you guys think my writing is relatable or am I the weird one? Please leave a comment to let me know what you think! 
Also, if you liked this poem you'll probably like Happiest Memory From Last Year. Check it out!

Imaginary Friend. -Ch. 3


It's been four days, and if the notes wasn't always in my pocket, ready for me to check it's real, I would've been thinking I actually imagined all of it. And if Andrea wasn't asking me again about my "hot-imaginary-friend-look-alike".
I should've never admitted that he's hot. And anyway it's not like he's universally handsome. Some people would even say he's ugly, but I feel like he's charismatic enough to give off a "hot vibe" anyway.
I'm not making any sense.
We say goodbye in front of the library. It's half past ten, we've been studying together the whole evening, but now it's late and I just need to sleep. Andrea invited me to a party with some friends, but there's no way I'm going to be social twice in less than a week. There's no way I'm going to be social twice a month, really. Or a lifetime.
I take the road that cuts through the park, while she walks in the opposite direction. -Text me when you get home,- she screams when we both started walking away already. I wave at her again. I'm so going to forget by the time I'm home.
There's no one in the park. It's nice. But just as I'm thinking about how weird it is that it's so empty, even at this hour, I see someone sitting on a bench. He's sitting like a guy, one of those who take a lot more space than they need to. They're never good news. I look around, but there's no other road to take from here if I don't want to go back or cut through the grass, and it'd be too dark in both cases. I walk straight ahead, trusting in my resting bitch face.
-Hey,- I recognize that voice. I look at him. It's too dark to see him, but I almost don't need to. What's he doing here though? -Do you have a lighter?
-I...- I do, actually. -Yes.- I pick it up from the smaller pocket in my bag. I've bought one just this morning, after noticing that I lost my last one and I had no way to light my candles. -Here.
-Thank you.
Is it really him? Does he recognize me?

My soul.

So, I've been reminded that Supernatural exists. Then I've also been reminded that I can't stick to a topic. Enjoy your reading! ❤
I buried the box
at the center of the crossroad.
I waited for the demon to come.
When they arrived
they smiled at me.
We were good friends already.
I gave them
my soul
-one of my souls-
to last for the next ten years.
They knew what I wanted already.
Always had.
Time didn't matter,
hadn't mattered since the first time.
My soul didn't matter,
never mattered
-too black and battered to be worth anything.
But my souls-
oh, my souls,
their souls,
how they mattered.
I went off,
back at collecting them.
No one remembers,
no one asks questions anyway.
They love me so much.

Ten years gone by.
I've taken another soul
happy to love me.
The soul lost just as much as me
anyway.
The demon smiled at me.
How worthy were souls in love.

Stay safe everyone!
Please comment and subscribe to let me know you're here! 
And wish you all a great week! ❤ 
Quick reminder that I started a new story: Imaginary Friend.
Go check it out! 

Imaginary Friend. - Ch. 2

As I said, I'm trying to update as often as I can, so here is the second part! I honestly haven't revised, so feel free to point out any mistakes!

I read it once again, and again. I even perfectly remember the handwriting. It's the same, just more defined. Grown up, like him.
It doesn't make sense.
He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be anywhere to begin with. He shouldn't exist. Imaginary friends aren't real. They just aren't.

Only as I'm walking back home a thought finally catches my mind.
I'm still not sure how he gave me the note in the first place, but even worse... I didn't notice it right away, I was too shocked at seeing him, but... how did it get in my bag, when I'd left it at home, on the table?

On Saturdays I usually go shopping for groceries at the open market near home. It's also near the library, so I can do it on my way back from studying sometimes. But more often than not it's a way to take a break. And if I'm lucky I may also find some used books. This Saturday it takes less time than usual though. Maybe because I spent every day in uni, and thanks to the canteen I didn't need to cook, so most of my groceries from last week are still in the fridge. I try not to think about whatever substances they're fed, for the vegetables to look that fresh after days. Some questions are better/best left unanswered.
I stop by a table covered in books. I feel like I'm going to find some hidden gem today. Most of the editions are pretty old, and that's one more positive thing for me. Old books are simply better. And the editions last definitely longer.
As I roam through the books I have a weird feeling though, and look around. There's no one I know, but I still feel watched. I catch sight of a ponytail of blue hair, but a moment and it's gone. I drop Madame Bovary and walk in their direction for a few metres, till I'm away from the market. I think I see it again in the park, on a dead end trail, but by the time I'm there it's empty. I actually look around, behind the trees and the bushes, like the creepy person I'm becoming.
If he's not a ghost, he's damn good at disappearing. I think back to the first time he reappeared to me. Whether he's a ghost or not, he's also damn good at making me feel like I'm losing my mind.
For now, I hope it's just a feeling.

Imaginary Friend. - Ch. 1

Hello everyone! It's been a while, but I'm actually back with a new story. The title isn't set yet, but if I don't use a random one now I'll end up procrastinating the update even more, so here it is! It's a thriller (I think) with a bit of a supernatural feeling. 
I understand we're all more or less quarantined, so I hope this'll give you a nice way to spend some time. I'll try updating as often as possible, and no less then once a week. Now, here's the story! Enjoy your reading!
The house is silent. Everything is as it should be. And yet... Did I hallucinate? Did I see a ghost? Even worse, did I see a hot ghost? Oh God, my parents were right. Too much studying could actually fry my brain. I didn't listen to them, I wanted to be a doctor, I wanted to be so great... And now I'm losing my mind and seeing ghosts in a palace that can't be older than fifty years.
I take a deep breath. I can't be this dumb. I can't really be thinking about ghosts now. It was just a boy. A boy that looked too much like... like someone. I pick up from the floor the note he (it?) left. I can't bring myself to read it again. But it feels real in my hand, the texture of paper and the ink and the crumples from where I took it. It feels real. It must be real.
I put it on the table so that only the blank part is visible. I can't read it again. I'm not crazy. It's a stupid prank - from whom? I don't know anyone here. - and I'm not so dumb to fall for it. I'm really not. And I'm not crazy.
I stare at my books on the desk. It's dark outside. The only light in the room makes everything look a different shade of gray, but I would've turned on another one to keep studying for a while.
Instead I wash the dirty dishes in the sink. Then I take a shower, reminding myself that the door is locked, and no one can enter, and the boy wasn't actually here. He couldn't be.
I try not to think about the note.
I fail.
I try not to think about a pair of sad blue eyes. They remind me of being lost.
I fail again, and this time I feel tears.

When I wake up, the next morning, the tears are gone and I feel fresh, I feel sure I had a nightmare and it's all gone and I'm back at myself. I ignore the blank piece of paper on the table. It's nothing I should care about. It doesn't exist.
I pack the notebooks and dress up as a young professional woman who isn't afraid of ghosts, because she doesn't believe they're real. My mirror smiles at me.
I arrive in class five minutes before the start of the lesson and take my usual place. I smile tight to the girl who's been trying to befriend me for a couple of weeks. I don't mean to seem rude, but I won't even let her think I care about those useless chatters. It's not her fault. I'm pretty sure she's nice enough. But I don't need friends, and I really don't need chatters. I don't need anything that's gonna slow me down. I lock eyes with another girl who sits a bit more to the right. We usually talk about classes and our notes, and we met up at a couple of exams, and she seems nice enough to not be a bother.
The lesson proceeds as usual. I already covered part of the material, but I take notes anyway to check on it later in the afternoon. The rest I should've covered yesterday evening, but... I put the note and the boy in a mental box closed with a lock.
Not the right moment. It will never be the right moment, but that doesn't matter now. The lesson matters.
It's past seven in the evening when lessons are over. I go to my kickboxing practice, than eat a light dinner and head to the library. I can't study at home right now, not with the note looking at me from the table. It's still blank. I won't bring myself to turn it over and read it again.

I take my usual place at the library. Near a window, far enough from the door to avoid people who go in and out, with the usual girl sitting in front of me. I'm not actually sure she's a girl, but I suppose so from the long afro braids and the make-up she usually wears. I told her I love her braids once - which I do; I don't hate wasting time so much that I don't appreciate beautiful things - and she smiled so wide I actually smiled in return. She seems nice. And never bothers me, so even nicer.
She nods her head at me, and today she has no make-up on. I would've though she was a boy, had I met her like this on the first day. How important are first impressions. I also nod my head.
I take a book from the bag, with highlighters and post-its and my notes to confront with the book. I need to catch up on what I didn't study yesterday, and then do today's work. I have a feeling it'll be a long evening.
As soon as I open the book, a piece of paper flies and falls to the ground. I've barely reacted when a slim hand picks it up and hands it over to me.
-It fell,- he says. A pair of sad, blue eyes stare at me for a moment. His fingertips touch mine in giving me the note. Then a moment, and he's gone, and I'm staring to his blue hair from behind.
-Did you see that?- I ask the girl. It couldn't be a ghost at this point.

On the morning star.

I fell on the morning star
down the river
and felt the weight of a bar,
then a shiver.
I said I fell, but it's not exactly true:
in fact, I went searching for it in the blue
and ran and flew and swam so hard
I ended up there, doesn't matter how scarred.
And got it, took it, it was mine
till it made me fall with its whine.
Thought I had the power, had the choices,
till I ended up drowned by the voices
and went through it all, went through Hello
to find out why with all that power I still fell.
Hell had no answers, Heaven didn't look
and still I used that power by the book.
Got all I wanted on a whim
and yet my power has never been so dim.
The voices answer, I don't listen
and close my eyes to what did glisten
till I go deaf and I go blind
and the voices finally have me bind.

About a fight.

New poem out! Hope you like it, and I'll be waiting for your feedbacks~💞
An ongoing fight
to be recognized
and remembered
and loved
-or is it adored?
just as much as I love them.
When I can't anymore
can't take it anymore and
don't want to take it anymore
and just wait for a break from the fight
I focus on that recognition
and it's not even on purpose
but I tell myself
it'd be my peak.
It probably wouldn't.
Would never be enough for one like me.
I guess at some point
I should first recognize myself.
And it's harder than it seems,
I swear.
I tried.
I looked for recognition,
for my recognition
literally everywhere and anywhere.
Even in other people.
I lose interest as soon as I feel the adoration.
Who would like someone with bad taste?
I laughed
the last time I told this joke.
As I wrote I was on the verge of tears:
how can I love myself
and show such bad taste?
This poem should've been about a fight,
not about self love.
I have nothing to say about it.
Nothing to write.
I said so much already
I bored myself out of it.
I stopped looking for it in other people at least
-only made me want to throw up,
to cut myself
and disappear-.
I think I'm searching for it
in dreams now.
Not that I don't act-
I do, I try.
But I waste so much time
daydreaming about who I should be
and about someone to teach me
self love
or a self satisfaction
near enough for me to play make-believe.
At this point
I wouldn't find self love
even if it punched me in the face.
I tell myself
other people won't help me find it
so I push them away.
The fight has been lost at the start.
I can't remember how it started.
I walk my way back
with ease.
No one is waiting for me anyway.
If you're reading this, thank you for getting through the whole thing! Please leave a comment and subscribe if your liked it! ✨
If you liked this poem, you may also like Enough! Try it out! 

In the forest

Me talking into the void:
How do you answer a question
no one asked?
How do you say anything at all
when no one wants to listen
wants to know your opinion
in the first place?
If you scream
and no one hears you
did you even make a sound?
did you make any nose at all?
If you speak
and they're talking over you
should you even waste any more breath?
Is it worth at all
speaking
yelling at a crowd
taken by their own business
that involves anything but you?

Did the tree
falling in the forest
make any sound?
Hope you enjoyed!
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And wish you all a great week! ❤ 

Imagining.

Did I wait till the last moment to post? Yes. Do I feel bad? Yes. 
Will I do it again? Absolutely, yes. 
Enjoy your reading everyone!

Imagining I close my eyes
and tomorrow everything's alright.
It's done,
I'm gone,
my problems are no more.
Maybe I'm alone.

Imagining - dreaming
another kind of happiness
- now unknown -
as if it could solve my doubts
make me close my mouth
and stop screaming
- for happiness.

Imagining - I would've once called it planning
that new kind of life
that could answer my questions
and slow down my thoughts
for a moment - just long enough
to give me a break.
And yet - wait for it -
I'm still here.

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Wish you all a great week! 😽