I want to sleep.

But I don't know if I remember how.

Why am I doing this anymore?

In a time of change,
Of never-ending pain,
Why do I still call you?

Why do I let you listen
To stress work gives me,
To the worries I have about my future?

I don't think
I'd call it love.

But I think
It's more than a friendship.

I love you, I do...

But I know you don't. Not in that way.

Because you see fragments,
Small pieces of nothing.

And I can only see the world,
Destroyed with a single touch.

I'm sorry.

Tonight, my thoughts
Are so clouded
And stormy
That I can't see the lighthouse,
The way out of the storm.

I suppose it turned out for the best.

After all that I've done,
It seems fitting that I'd wind up here.

It's a good thing I was never enough.

I failed you, my darling,
And I failed myself 100 times over.

I never made it, not by a mile.

I always wanted to do more with my life,
Beyond the average, what was expected.

But I even failed at that.

So now, I plan around failure,
My world never focusing on success.

I haven't learned anything, beyond that of lying.

I am so good at it, I can deceive my own heart,
Believing that my failure is okay.

Even though I know it's not.

It seems that, for the longest time,
I could never write.

My mind can be full at times,
Full of beautifully poetic words.

But nowadays, I can't think
In the form of verses and stanzas.

I have tried so hard to turn this
Mess of madness into some form of beauty,

That I began to lose track
Of when beauty faded to madness,

So much so
That it started to consume me,

Wearing away
At my very soul.

Someone once told me,
"We act for one of two reasons;

For fear of losing something,
Or for love of gaining."

With all the greed I saw in the world,
I found it impossible to argue back.

So now I sit here,
And I wonder

What am I doing here?
Why am I like this?

I find these answers impossible,
But I have some theories.

I am mostly a fragile being,
Terrified of life and its trials.

Every thought of mine a reflection of that,
Who could ever argue?

Where wishes are made
To be more popular, more pretty,
All manner of desirable things.

A tradition
Created by adolescents,
In a need to fulfill their dreams.

Quick to believe open lies,
Always eager to believe
Your empty, fragile promises.

1:11, this vision fades,
A mere 2 hours
Is all it takes.

One begins to realize
The emptiness of dreams
In the presence of the nightmare.

The nightmare,
Which is always there,
Residing in the darkness at the back of the mind.

This was me, long ago.
Now I reside in a deeper, darker time,
In the world of 2:22.

I live in a world unlike any other,
Where ghouls and ghosts
Constantly live.

And traumatize these nights.

Humans and demons,
Fighting for life.

That is all we are.

No angels here,
No good act truly pure.

We are all evil, in our own way.

A refusal to trust, a refusal to love,
All our impurities shown at the end.

For death, yes, she is the only pure one here.

Cleaning up humanity's messes,
Ending grieving souls' suffering.

The last hope for the cruel people that we are.

Perhaps she is not innocent, nor is she fair,
But who, if anyone, could do better?