Longing

It's 6:10am. I wish to sleep, but I could not because the words keep calling me. These words that spill from my heart, from my fingertips. What a world so tangled in itself, a world so cruelly cold. I think what I feel is loneliness, it is so comforting sometimes. Loneliness is comforting, because of the cry for a touch. Maybe it is because everyone who has lived has felt it before, it connects us. My friend at one point told me, that he sees my loneliness. I was startled, because I never thought I felt lonely, that hollow feeling of needing another soul to hold on to. The only time I feel lonely is when I see the actual horror and vividly gory reality of life. It frightens me to the core of my being, yet I find myself enamored by it. In love, with the edgy and at times evil. I think it is because of my experiences, the things that I've seen or felt. I think with time, the true self, that has been encapsulated in glass or frozen solid, begins to crack and finally emerge from their deep slumber. For me, I think I was hurt a long time ago, and now I think I'm finally starting to see him, whatever or whoever was hurt, and he's starting to become real. Maybe I am just scared of who he will be, or what he will do. If he is worse than me. I guess we will see, and maybe this longing will finally be quenched, for eternity.

The feeling

It's 6:50am. I'm drinking, I feel like I am in a state of meaninglessness. I received a letter from my friend in prison. He told me about his perception of reality, and society from a cell. I could tell from the letter, his ideas jumped from one to the next, like he had something to say. I think words themselves, don't really encapsulate emotion or reality. On some things I agreed with him completely. His views on the overall societal norms, I found interesting. How we must succumb to the monopolies of the company overlords. It never fades though, the feeling of difference, the feeling that something inside calls you away from the ideas of your ever perfect reality. The reality that cries out for love, attention, for a home to call your own. That feeling I think, it's ingrained in a specific few, like he, and I. The feeling that something else hides behind our foggy eyes, the feeling that sulks around, and slithers until it finds a hole to hide in. Maybe the hole is relationships, to pretend itself that one would need a lover, to survive, or family to hide behind. Because behind the mask hides true horror, that it needs no body but itself, and that evil that it holds. Or maybe that feeling is money, that it needs to pretend to want, because of survival. Yet, it whimpers for something other than the material. Slither away, young snake, let yourself hide, because the world is evil and cruel. Lest you want to perish in fire and beatings, you must hide.

To the normal

It's 3:45am. I feel I need to address this, tonight among the many nights of my life I keep hearing of these people's voices. I feel distant from the normal, the normal people around me. I think of myself as something alien and foreign. Not in a sense of superiority, but of strangeness. Nestled within a society so prominently simple. I think I should not say what I mean. To say so simply, would be to kill a baby bird before it could fly. One such as I, feels distant, unnaturally different. I think what made me normal, and simple, died a long time ago. Only now, as my maturity grows, I come to realize the vividly real person I am. Unfortunately, it comes only with distance, and coldness. Maybe to be evil, to be cruel is my true person. And all the years that I dedicated to niceness and purity, are a shadow to the core of my being. It is so hard sometimes, to mask myself, I know one day it will tear, and the real me will be awoken, from the eternal slumber. Until then, I will allow myself to be unreal, and throw myself into the plague.

Hell

It's 3:37am. I find myself alone in a cold world. No matter how many words I manage to shout, the world never changes. I think I am in a loop, a loop of disdain and torture. This must be hell, this must be what is talked about since the dark ages. To lash out at god and to be treated with silence. To muster enough strength just to be left to die in the dark. Oh how I smell the bodies of my comrades, of my loves and treasures, just to whisper in my dying breath, help. To not be heard, to suffer alone. Maybe it is my hell, to yell into the void. Or maybe it is my paradise, because I know of the emptiness. To the hell that torments me, I say let it come, and maybe I will find paradise in this suffering of mine.

A poet's dead heart

This is a poem of a dead heart. The shutters of my heart creep a silent wind.
Because this beating flesh only moves to the sound of your voice. 

The coldness shiver throughout my body, my soul.

To hear your silky voice, to see your smooth skin melt into mine

It would describe pleasure to the letter

Yet I know your breath speaks to another

I know your heart was given to a much better soul

So bleed for me, love

Bleed unto your lover

Because I am forever a shadow that casts over you

A watcher of another time, of another life

Yes this watcher knows not of love, but of heartache, forever and always.

Crutch

It's currently 5:48am. Today technically, is the new year. The year is 2020. I don't feel any different, I don't have any feelings of change, or difference. So when I hear, "happy new years" I feel numb. Numb to joy, or any sort of new feeling. I think it's because I have been stuck for so long, I don't have an idea of something different. I'm drinking, but today as a celebration, to be happy. Yet, as I take another sip, another drink, I feel all the more sad. I think I use alcohol as a crutch, to make me write or to feel some sort of way. My mind usually doesn't care about anything, and when I drink it makes me throw myself into whatever I see. Like I can completely chuck myself into fucking traffic. I can see it now, windshield cracked, blood smearing onto the pavement, and the gasps of onlookers. I keep cutting off my limbs, but they keep growing back. They keep coming back, like roots digging deep into my skin, like a cancer that has been hidden in my blood.

Code

It's 4:21am. There must be something wrong in my coding. Something unfamiliar, something foreign. I keep believing that one of these days I will change, but I keep being let down. Let down in  a sense, that one would be so intensely normal, to be so different that normal life would seem like a dream. This time, I think, as my day begins. This time, I will be different. I look along the lines of difference, and my eyes begin to shade to grey. The dullness of everyday life, it's almost like the weight of it is so immense, that I crumble every time I try. I like to pinch myself, yes with gore and violence, to feel that little shock to breathe life into my soul. It's not enough. It's never enough, moreover, this empty hole that I would like to fill stems from a hole that is ingrained in our very nature as humans. We, who like to protest against such an overbearing and cruel universe, yelling at the cosmos. It cares not, because it is unpredictable and chaotic. Sometimes, it is so hard to continue living. To continue yelling, at this being, sometimes I feel my legs begin to buckle, and my throat begins to feel sore. Those are the times, people like to find some sort of connection, and bring it to light, to make them feel less alone, friendships, family, loved ones. For us, who have lost such feelings, it can only be gained through the sheer will of survival, to speak. To speak, and realize our anger, our hatred, to focus on the legacy we wish to leave humanity. To leave them with not a whimper, or a gasping for life, but a solid and loud," fuck you".