I feel sick with the anger of the Sun's broken trust
I mourn with the Moon's lost friendship,
But through all that ****, somehow
keep shining as bright as the stars' will to bring light wherever dark may come.
(I will try)
Then come the skies of grey,
and I don't feel so brave anymore.
I become lost.
With a scattered mind and a sight clouded by fog.

Suddenly, there is light.
(Tiny, but true to it's cause.)
And I am somehow confused.
How can something so small...
So minuscule...
Brighten this seemingly never-ending blackness?

My bewilderment continues as this singular spark of hope keeps on flaming
With this rage. This powerful rage.
So strong, it's overwhelming.

I am unsure what this rage concerns,
but it does not stop.
Does not waver.
This pulsating passion.
It does not stop.
It will not stop.
I almost want it to cease, even though it has kept me
From fading.
From dying.

I feel like I'm turning into a grey can of paint.
Y'see, pretty much everything is either black or white to me.
But for a long time, I've been noticing that I'm more stuck in this grey parabole in the middle. I'm always saying things like, "I do know, but I don't know" and, "I want it but I really don't want it". It's all very confusing and my ability to make decisions is diminishing each day I go on like this...
It's making everything seem more and more impossible...
Most days, I'm mixing slightly more with the black than the white (and vice versa). These days aren't so bad- if you've been this state for as long as I have.
Then there's the days when I am the most perfectly balanced grey you could ever lay your eyes upon; there's almost beauty in my misfortune and depleting mental stability. Days like those- a day like this...
A day like this can demolish your spirit in milliseconds. A day like this can stop you from seeing the most vibrant autumn leaves strewn across the earth, as your eyes have now turned to grey. A day like this can let your demons burst out from hiding in the cavities of your mind and start gnawing at things they shouldn't. A day like this makes you not care that all of this is happening to you, just as long as you're still as dull as your cigarette's smoke.

Bubbles of light come through the blanket he uses as a curtain.
A shield against the frightful world filled by ragged people with scabs for eyes.
How I wish I too wish I could not view this disintegrating pile of ash and ****.
So I'll sit.
In this room.
With this blanket
and my thoughts.