Feeling like a waste of human life
seems to be disgustingly more and more
familiar to me each day.
With every breath I take,
I can’t help but to feel it is misplaced.
I feel like drowning,-
just compiling all this hate,
all my fears, my repressed anger,
my feelings of loss, and self loathing,
and taking them-
and letting em' eat away at my pores-
letting em' impregnate my lungs-
as I wither,
until nothing more but a hollow shell remains.
I feel like setting fire to this face.
Taking that cheap molten metal,
and instead of to my wrist,
applying it to my brain;
letting it simmer and burn until there is no more pain.
I choose to wallow, dwell, and hold onto this rage
for reasons we call,
"insane".
I constantly, consistently,
no matter the consequence,
or the grief I may bring,
sabotage anything I could possibly EVER have going for me.
I am my own worst enemy.
I feel like I am screaming.
Like every fight we ever had,
I was blatantly clear of what it is I fear,
but I am wrong,
I didn’t tell you once what was REALLY going on.
Not once did I say I just feel useless today.
I miss my brother and his familiar face.
I think about him with every heart beat,
living in a tent, fighting this war of greed,
just counting down until he can finally be-
returned home to his loving new family.
I hold him very close to my heart,
and his absence is quite frankly,
TEARING me apart.
I wish He could have been here for our Father in his time of need.
I know Dad wishes that too.
I wish I knew how to deal with loss better.
I only feel guilt, and bitterness.
I feel like in the years I have been alive,
that I should have DONE MORE!
I should have gotten to know my grandfather before-
it was too late.
What a selfish, putrid being
I have grown to be.
I wish my brother could see
our beautiful Mother finally
get the wedding she always dreamed.
Instead….
He will only see pictures.
He will only be with us in our hearts,
and on paper,
and on Anthony’s tux.
I hope Momma takes it well.
It will be an ever bittersweet memory.
What irony.
I have been thinking about using again.
As often as I blink,
I fight this demon inside of me,
just pleading to be set free,
yet instead,
I allow it to consume me.
Falling, flitting, failing, quitting.
A ****** battle that I just can’t seem to win,
silent, yet shrieking
from this prison we call-
“within”.