A mild case of impostor syndrome,
a severe symptom in the form of
confabulations without instigations,

are the base of our disease.
Who we are, is glued to our
actions, due to devour
what our soup tasted like before it all went sour.

This is nonsense, this is weak,
this is no writing of which people speak.
Is it even right in use to say the things, written.
Stop longing for the time of long before,

when we were all still rid
of conscious thought and feeling,

back when we were reeling in and out, casually,
of our devout inadequacy.

We never know what to say,
they never know how to feel.
As nothing seems real,
as we all fail to grasp what may
be tomorrow,
our words stay drenched in sorrow.

The moment is frozen and time stands still.
What no one has chosen will
happen right when no one needs it to,
persistently followed by a shrill
shriek.

I shouldn't speak. I'll listen. You don't have to tell
me anything. Just know I'm here in case you do
need or attempt to
unravel.

The guilt is spilling.
Uncertainty, unwillingly,
is leaving as we speak,

right now, reluctantly,
it’s showing its razor-like, sharp beak.

I haven’t been taking the pills I ought to take.
For over four mornings, it felt nearly impossible
for me to wake.

I fear this to be the reason my guilt spills,
which I presume will
cost me far more than four mournings
to pay off its seasoned bill.

I was a temporary guest,
the odd one out in a sorrow ridden manifest
of a ship in barren state, in desperate need of its late
and sunken, not forgotten, captain. He who once led

the journey to a deep below,
the only one who could bestow
me with the honor of which no more has to be said.

For everyone around and afar knew the man to be some kind
of genius, carrying a heart for treasure and a broken, humble mind
without a limit to its measure.

He passed away in fire which is obviously dire for a man involved with sea,
a man so passionately desiring of sailing waves ineffably steep, fell to his knee
for a sort of knowledge, now eternally asleep.

He shaped me, he formed, he created as I waited
to embark on the impossible, yet inevitable, if I may,
a trip to tomorrow’s yesterday.

Piled up dust, dark shades,
lack of colours, thought fades.

Imagine living in a coast town
Every day you'd get to see
the endless sea
how insignificant you'd be.
A single wave could mean your end,
send you down,
never to return from the depths of its magnificent cold.

Imagine living there,
having nothing left to touch,
to feel with your fingers, your hands, to hold
but loose sand, slipping through, ever fleeting, as dust.
Playing the piano would turn into a must
to survive. One final grasp on the thinned out strings of life.
The steel and copper wires forging dying fires.

One last press yet no rebounding sound.

At least you'd be alone, crazy but the only mad one with grace
for miles around, as your knees sink into the ground.
As you stare at the waves, calling out your name.
As you realize to them life is just a game
and you are just a waste of space

Wake up, get up, eat,
wash, brush, work, repeat.
Every day, more than half of your day,
all days, lost.

The cost of a childhood is paid
as soon as your first responsibility is made.
I struggle, never asked to be born,
I juggle life decisions
just to see them drop and hit the floor.

I seem to have lost my ability to care.
Will I ever wake up from this manic nightmare

Why am I here,
what is there to gain?
What should I do or
can I do to stay at least a little sane.

It is eating, it is tearing
me apart, I started learning,
how this world is so concerning,
how people, educated and mature,
seem infected, lacking of a cure.

Madness is worming through,
making holes, drenched in goo.
Reality is slipping, dripping slowly, so unfair,
into my life, making itself known and me aware.

I stare in mirrors, at the endless void,
into my own eyes in low dim light, I stumble,
living life, waiting to see it crumble,
I'm here to suffer and in the end,
finally, just to be destroyed.