What is the point of all this pain?

What is the point of wishing to live again?

What is the point of knowing I’ll never be sane, wandering around with nothing to gain?

Is it the chirp of crickets at night?

The lanterns swinging, bringing peace and light?

The smell of flowers after a storm?

The crackle of a campfire, still bright and warm?

I wish I could tell you what you wanted to hear,

That the world is perfect, not full of fear,

But I am am not a liar, at least, not to you.

We must keep hope, me and you.

And look for the little things in life,

The things most ignore.

Such as the laugh of friends

When things become clearer,

Or the softness of dewy grass,

Or the smile of the monster in the mirror,

The world is not perfect

And that is our painful truth.

But we must keep trying to find the light in a pitch black room.