what am i doing? here? with my life? where am i going? why do i always want to die? am i one of the people meant for longevity? am i one of the people meant for young tragedy? am i meant to be here? why do i have all these questions? and why do they never stop pestering me? is this my life? does this qualify as living? as existing? will i be gone soon? do i want to be? does this ever end? what is wrong with me? what is right with me? will it always be this way? why? WHY?

i don't have a ******* clue.  but you smell like vanilla, so i'll hold onto that.

how to write
a book about
depression that
isn't about
depression
that's some
sylvia plath ****
i am not her
i do not want to be her
i want to be me
i need to find it
i feel it beating
i still don't know
if i am alive
there's got to be more to this than
that
that stupid ******* bray
**** her
i need more than that

greasy hair
sticky legs
prickly
sweaty
burning in the rays
of their stares
she's ugly,
pretty,
smart,
******* weird,
invisible
(who is she?)
where is her place in this world?
(away from us)
God, it's hard to speak,
breath,
be
she wants to go home now
(where is that?)
tired eyes
ragged nails
messy messy messy
(take her to the landfill)
her chariot awaits
calloused hands
hold on tight

i guess this is how it's supposed to work
i keep writing
and writing
and spewing worthless ****
that's been said thousands of times before
but i can't do anything else
i need to empty myself
i need to feel something
i, i, i, i, i,
always about me
that's all i know
and even that i don't understand much at all
me, me, me, me, me
***** me
i am loved
i am worth it
but ****** do i want to be?
all these ties are supposed to keep me from falling
but they're dragging me down
little bows and red strings
from my heart
i wish i was alone
i wish these thoughts would end

what am i doing
playing pretend
waiting out life
going through all the motions
but not very well
i feel like i'm dying but i know that
i haven't begun living yet
i am scared
life is a monster
all it wants to do
is **** me from behind
put teeth in my shoulder
rip out my hair
make a ***** out of me
i used to be senseless
i used to not question every little thing
i miss that
but i could never go back
enlightenment
hate it
but can't live without it

no one is reading my **** anymore
it's not generic enough
not sad enough
not happy enough
not ******* insane enough
not sadistic enough
not self-deprecating enough
this is why the best writers always ******* **** themsleves
or drink themselves to death (because somehow it isn't considered suicide if it's done over a few decades instead of in an instant)
i'm not mad that people aren't reading
i'm just confused
what am i doing
they told me anyone could be a writer
and i've seen enough published ******* to believe that that is true
i'll write about cats
about cats ******* cats
is that crude enough for you
i'm screaming now, and you can't hear me
you're to busy with the spectacle-boy with a vape pen and brand new perfectly shredded shoes
this is why everyone hates themselves
and why everyone who doesn't always seem so unaware
is this how the world divides
the blissfully dumb
and the dying intellects
not intellects
pessimists
that's what we are
if i could live in your world i would
but i'm stuck with incessant thoughts
and loud, depressing music to make them sound less appealing