it’s 12 minutes to 6 as I write this
12 minutes to 6 on what day?
I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to say
All I know for certain is of this state of bliss
That arises with the sun when the darkness
That plagues my consciousness
Has finally passed

When the rats who’ve made their nest
Deep inside my mind, eating away
At my last grasp of sanity
Cease their feast for a few hours to digest

When the fear of tomorrow is no longer holds reasoning
As tomorrow is the present and somehow
I’m still breathing

It’s now 7 minutes to six as i consider the theory
of time and it’s relevance
As I question it’s importance in my diary
And whether I need to know the date or time
In which I am writing this nonsense
Whether I should be concerned about my disconnect from society
When all that matters is that my worries disappear in the morning

Sometimes, I blame the stars
I ponder the possibility of their alignment being so twisted on the day I was born
Searching for an explanation

Sometimes, I blame my parents
Perhaps the concept of never being good enough, of which they poisoned my brain with, was not just a concept but in fact the truth all along

Sometimes, I blame my teachers
I consider the reinforcement of said concept being pushed down my throat during my years in education
Never good enough to succeed
Never good enough to be loved

Sometimes, I blame God
No, I’m not religious, but the desperation to know the unknown consumes my entire being until I am pushed towards yet another unknown

Sometimes, I blame society
For worshipping such unattainable standards of beauty that one forgets the true meaning of the word
What does it mean to be beautiful?
What does it mean to be loved?

I never blame myself.
Because I know that is where the answer lies and it terrifies me.

The violins are playing their favourite symphony tonight.
The same four bars, a repeated melody;
One so familiar they no longer need to see the notes,
Only to feel them dance

A fusion of opposing keys
All headed in the same direction
Bows slicing the air with fervour
We’ve been here before

Sinisters sound echo in my head
Their subtle forte consuming my being
I no longer wish to feel the notes
Only to see it end

Bows are placed on the stands
The violins have stopped,
Yet the metronome continues to drip onto the counter
the notes continue to dance in the rain

The violins played their favourite symphony tonight.
I wish I had the strength for it to be their last