Apathy

I am alive but I am not living.
I crave constant reminders that this person I see is. That I am.
Each morning I wake up, I convince myself to wind the motor that drives my empty, practiced motions. I do this not for myself, but for them. For those who know me, for those who feel the dull of summer pulling me into apathy.
I fear what will happen when I leave this house. When the expectations that now motivate me are lifted, where will I be? Happy? I'd like to think so.
Self fulfillment does not fulfill me. I crave the attention of others. Those who freely give appreciation when none is returned. And when they sense it, my loss of reality, I am their lost cause. Abandoned, I grasp for attention in ways that now frighten me. But in the moment, in the need, it seems the only way. Tragedy.
I welcome tragedy, I seek it. Contemplating my future, I felt the warmth of a hundred hapinesses suddenly replaced by the pain of a hundred losses.
These spears of piercing emotion fell like rain on my face. Harmless. Refreshing, even.
I thought of a child, unborn, taken by the hand of God. Grieving faces surrounded me, ignored. I have eyes only for the arms, outstretched, comforting me.
Yet I am sane. I must be. My confidence in this fact is the only thing that keeps me sane. To myself at least. To myself at most.
But now, writing, reflecting on my thoughts, the possibility of my insanity drives me closer to the edge.

Author's Note

PLEASE criticize freely.
I think this piece comes off more as a discourse and less a piece of writing, and anything you have to say would be helpful. (:
I wrote this essay at midnight last night after I woke disturbed by my own thoughts. It is based on my own experiences. Reading it now, I think this essay could plausibly describe emotions raging in many teenagers - apathy, abandonment, and the need for attention.
If you'd like more insight into this piece, please feel free to comment or drop me a message.

Reviews

[John Fitzgerald]

there is nothing so visited in poetry as the subject of self-worth; and in often case the questioning of it.
However i found this poem fresh and inspiring. it is as though we are perched headlong on the edge of an answer, that will come to define us. a wound not healed but accepted. i often find discourse more revealing than what other people would discard, there is an immediacy to your writing, unsulled by an instinct to conform. beautiful. :)