After many years of thought,
I reached a conclusion.

My life has no meaning.

I have no reason for my existence,
No idea what to do with it.

But at least I'm not lying to myself.

The world full of distractions,
Hiding the fact that death inches ever closer

With every move we make.

Some might find meaning in helping others,
But you can help others if you can't help yourself.

Maybe I should die.

That's the point of it all, isn't it?
To suffer?

Everything dies out, eventually.

Even the universe,
The never-ending flow of time.

The only reason to live is to suffer.

And everything in between that
Is boring.

It's been a while, hasn't it?

I don't know if what I've been doing is "healing",

But one can hope.

If you saw all the blank pages
I tried to write,

The empty drafts
Without words,

You'd realize I'm not perfect?

So why must you insist that I am?

Why am I held to such a high expectation,
Where anything less than perfection is wrong?

Where I'm wrong?

And, more importantly,
Could I ever be enough for you?

Could I ever be something more,
Anything more, than a "failure" ?

A loud explosion,
Followed by
Deadly silence.

Both sides still
Fuming, hurting,
Believing they are right.

Two worlds
Torn apart
By a few awful words.

Their child left alone
Crying in the dark,
Their love forever gone.