Excerpts 2 in Writings

Along a barren road I travel alone without direction, I have been misguided, and have become lost in this abyss. The resentment that follows me is a daily dosage of the painful dagger of reality. The once meaningful past has become a mirage. A vision that was never real. I am angry for being so deceived by it. All of the moments turned their back on me, it is like the realization that your friends were always your foes, waiting for your weakest moment before they took their stab and left you wounded by the battle you never intended to fight, and never had the chance to win. . . . . . . . . . . . . How much further could it be, so close to reaching the fiery pit. I am uncertain of the distance. I have no will. I avoid it all. I avoid life. I am lonely beside myself. Alive, but dying more each day. I age and decay in every moment. The hideous reflection becomes more morbid. I can almost see now, why no one could love me. Take this heart, rip it into tiny pieces it and shove it down the throats of those who have broken it. Let them feel the shards scrap and bleed down into their lungs, let them choke on the pain they caused me. Those thieves. Cold blooded murderers. Took everything I had. The blood pumps through my veins, but all the life is gone from me. The smile creases on my face, yet there is no joy underneath it. This angry resentment covers me like the dirt of a shallow grave. Suffocating, heaving under the pressure of it's weight. My hands are dressed in the earth that has doomed me, I reach to the sky and pray for a helping hand, but no one listens. If an empty heart as this could cease to beat, I'd welcome it's extinction.
. . . . . . . . . . . . I lift boulders to discover nothing, I turn corners to find myself in fright. I look at the steps I leave behind me. I wait for the guidance of some sort of light. I slither under covers, I wrap myself in the absence of warmth, I paint a pretty picture, so that someone can see what I am worth. I use ink, many shades of gray, and black to be precise, I see no color through my eyes, so I'll portray what it is really like. I stroke the wand across the white, and create a false concept, I tear it's seams and break it's bones to see the cause of the inevitable wreck. I fall in six foot holes, that never black out the sky, I watch for the stars appear, but my days have become my nights . . . . . . . . . .

Last updated May 11, 2014