Uber Driver Comforts

This whole thing.
Change.
Do people change?
I like to think I've changed.

But look where I am now.
Back where I was.
How many times have I been here?
too many to count.
This familiar feeling of melancholy.

How do you explain to someone
that you are a just a sad person
who also sometime enjoys being happy?

How do you explain to someone
that you want to be that person who makes a difference?
Not just one who exits in life passively
Because what's the point of passive living anyway?

If you can't better others
or yourself, than who are you to better at all?
Isn't the purpose of life to be a good person?

Honestly.
G-d.
Be. Honest.
Not all people are good people.
Some are good. But some aren't.

Usually the bad don't matter.
Except for tonight.
But once the melancholy hits, it's over.
Your already done with it, but its too late. It follows.

Dont dwell Don't dwell, said the art professor
but what does she know?
About trying to heal a broken heart?
They've hurt you. It's too late.
You've become useless.

Emotions. You can't help them.
But they are prisoners.
They govern how you act.

Dennis prager brings up a good point
That behavior is more important.
But what about those nights?
when the alcohol takes over.

And all you can do
is cry and cry and cry
What do you do
God please, tell me.

What do I DO,
When the cab driver
begs me to stop crying
begs me to stop feeling a way
Because im "beautiful"
when looks are clearly irrelevant here
flattery misplaced
he turns to me
don't cry.
your beautiful.

Tomorrow is a new day
Is it a new day?
With that logic
Tomorrow is just a cover up
A makeup for what's real.

Don't exit, do exist.
Can I tell you something?
nobody gives a crap.
Nobody fuckin' cares who I am
They don't care how I feel
And they don't care why.

But you know what makes me stronger
That my feelings are something too
And that I know that where there are lows.
There are highs too.
And I trust that G-d has those highs
In my future
But still,
Sometimes you just can't help
Being sad

For the sake of being sad

Does anybody get me?

I don't care

I just want to share

In case somebody might.

Life on the Cloud

My feet are on the soft surface.
As each foot makes another step,
the soft surface falls a bit sinking
sinking and making a hole.
It's snow. Wait no, it's a cloud.

I keep taking steps, through the white
the wind is crisp, fresh and clean
Another hole. It's uncertain what areas
Of the cloud are thick enough to hold,
But still, that's all part of the game.

The game? You ask, simply, but of course,
It's just the way things go.
At least on the clouds. One step. Safe
Two step. Fall. Three step. Safe. Four step. Safe.

Suddenly both feet fall, and I start falling,
Sinking faster through the wind,
The wind slapping, ouch! Wait no,
Was that an ace of spades?

Cards! But this is no drinking game,
Cacophonous, the cards are swirling
All around me, the noise,
Of paper at odds with the wind.

I'm taken back to the arena. Snap.
It's your usual fencing duel. Except

This time, I'm holding a set of cards.
It's a pretty good set, I'm proud of them.
I'm ready to enter.

No. Wait. I know him. Is this a joke?
The eyes. His smile. It's definitely him.
It won't phase me. It's fencing. This is my thing. Right?
But he doesn't have cards. What's going on?

That's okay this should be easier
But he just stands there. Arms crossed.
With that stupid smirk. Gently, smoothly,
walks over to me and my cards and pulls.

One of them. Trying to lick back the paper
With his fingers to see the precious numbers.
But he fails. The numbers are mine.
What is with that dumb smile?

But he doesn't stop. Hey Rebecca,
Are you sure I can't just take a peak?
Sorry. No. These are my cards. I'm tired
of your games. It's obvious.

These are my cards. Why does he want them?
If he really wanted them, he wouldn't pull.
And just like that:
as always, a realization:

He only pulls because he still cares.
The pushing, pulling, asking, probing
All with that stupid stupid smirk,
Only mean that behind the scruff and smile
Is just a petty guilty little boy.

Maybe the girl, who scribbled words
In her notebook, through tearing eyes,
Mumble Jumble, Vertigo, Yellow Words.
All the woes, left her all together, empty.

You would think. But now, she's published.
The words that melted the paper with her tears will
warm others within. Exhale. They do say
that the best art comes from pain.

Sometimes I wonder why we all think that
life is supposed to be good. It's just not.
That's the game. The obstacles are just opportunities.
Reminders of strength.

So he smirks.
So he pulls.
It's just chatter now.

This time, I'll hold my cards tight.
His stupid smirk. His glasses.
He still stands there, watching me try. Laughing.
His face melts. I look again. Blink.

But he's no longer there.
I'm on the cloud again.
What's the point of living in reality
when we can live in a dream?


I guess that's just my take on it.