I hate it. Being jaded. I wish that I was pure.
There's so much anger in me that has hardened my demure.
How I wish to be softer. Forgiving. Calm.
How I wish I carried love instead of hatred in my arms.
Gracefully light instead of heavily dark.
Blacker than nights of devilish storms.
I hate it, being jaded. Being over everything.
The sound of laughter, sights of green pastures; nothing impresses me.
To feel as if you've seen it all is quite a burdensome quilt.
Bundled and swaddled and overly coddled is not a life to live.
I feel hope inside me, hiding quietly, patiently waiting to come out.
But there I go, all morose, and back to the shadows it cowers.
So love will wait at my rusted gates until the neglect is faded.
Until then, I will mourn and sulk and scorn:
"Being jaded. How I hate it."