I was asked once, just once to piece together a puzzle made of rubble - made of me, made of sadness and static and voilence and beauty.
Only the edges were jagged and nothing fit.
The picture faded- it's pointless anyway, always so fucking pointless.
These cold-hardwood floors, so spastic yet never alive and this ashtray collecting the dust of moment past a moment longed for and these hands. These god damn hands are so heavy and scared,
trying to grasp the past while trying to push it away. Everything was once ok once... and now another empty glass tells me that I'm just tricking myself into thinking that everything is OK. That tomorrow is so close while yesterday is so fucking far away.
T there's no one here to push the hair out of my eyes so I stare into a slightly distorted mirror-and it's hard to recognize myself. Sometimes
these eyes, slightly darker than before, so catatonic...
Un-yeilding are these thoughts, crawling out of my skin and there's no fucking escape and I'm suffocating and struggling and screaming yet the reflection is an image of a boy standing still and not saying a word... just staring back into his cold dead yeys.
My hear is like a broken trophy won for something so meaningless, so asinine, a mere problematic sub-note in this futile struggle for remembrance
a schism of self.
I fell apart.
Staring at this enigmatic mirage of who I used to be, who I am no longer, maybe a post-apocalyptic persona. Piecing together an impossible puzzle
one million pieces of my shattered soul, and not one to fit the mold of the next.
what ever happened to apathy...
This intolerance. This consistency of failure.
This realization that nothing really matters.
Does anything really matter?
This is fucking killing me.