Dear*
Father,
It has been
Fifteen years since you left this world.
This world is no longer the same as fifteen years ago.
Everything has changed,
Even me.
Nevertheless, I miss you and I wish you never left.

4.57p.m.
I wonder,
Who else would look at the clock & think about life.
I'm tired & hungry & suicidal.
I want my exterior to be as broken
As my interior.
People only see the outside
And they don't understand what it's like
To have your mind pitch-black
And your body functioning on auto-pilot.
There's no break, no acceleration. Nothing.
You just do whatever your dark mind makes you do.

5.00p.m.
It's quiet here
With people minding their own business
Doing their own things.
I wonder,
Who else is like me
Trying to find a way back home.

I'm so sick and tired of all these.
Medication in the morning
Medication in the evening
As though it even helps.

I still feel the same pang of sadness
Stealing my breath
As my body collides into solid wall.
Bone breaking,
Heart shattering,
I might as well be dead.

I still feel the fat
Hanging off my body
Akin to ornaments
On a Christmas tree.
But,
Ornaments unlike fats
Is a pretty sight.

Funny how I feel more alone
With more people knowing
Who "I" really am.
(But who knows if this is even real)
This is like another hell altogether,
Probably a deeper hell than before.

How to I get out of this labyrinth?
This **** puzzle is unsolvable.

SOMEONE, TAKE ME OUT PLEASE!

Prison is
A four walled place,
With people scruntinizing
Your every move.
It's a place filled
With foul smells
And
Broken
People.

Prison is
A cage,
Encapsulating
Your very heart.
It prevents it
From falling apart.

Prison is
You
In your very body ,
Controlled by
your own mind.
You can't do anything
Or say a thing,
When it decides
To shut you up.

(c.c)

Maybe we're chemicals,
Because we've chemistry.

But then again,
It's not as though
Chemicals reacting
Could change anything
Other than the forms
That people see.

The forms change
But yet
What we consist of
Remains the same.

((Being in love doesn't mend a broken heart.))

Disoriented:
not knowing where I am
Who I am
What I am
Doing.

I die momentarily
When the monster grip
my soul
Out of this hollow frame;
The body.

They say: "time will tell"
I know not
of the time
now.

Inability to differentiate
Dreams
And reality,
I lie between
The blurred line.

I've read of how it took 40 floors
To ****** a boy, 16 of age,
With no voice.
He flunged himself to his death,
His head crushed
His bones broken.

It doesn't take 40 floors to **** someone:

Life is like a high rise building
Which evolved from a slum.
Each person you encounter,
Is a floor (flaw) in itself.
People leave; floors zoom past.
Perhaps slight friction from the wind,
From what one can't bear to leave.
Words breaks bones, pressure crushes.

See, Life is like this:
You climb up only to fall back down
And for people without voices,
Life murders.

(c.c)