everything is meaningless and i mean it. there's no point to this there's no point to me there's no point in existing other than to breathe and love and make sense of why we're here and i'm sick of people telling me that the smart ones are the sad ones because i'm not smart, i'm sick. i'm vomiting up all the feelings that are so overused and overexaggerated that i cannot tell what is normal or not until someone informs me that daydreaming of slashing wrists and leaking red when i drop a glass of water isn't normal. i used to think everyone was this way and i used to think there'd be some cure to this, some magic pill filled with stardust and a tendency for chemical codependency that would make me stop throwing up all the feelings bottled in the pit of my stomach. (the magic pill made me throw up, just not the bad things. only the good ones.) and i can't stop thinking about how everything is meaningless and we are all here and they are all there and no one will ever know one another completely and that's not okay with me. it's not.
// i wrote this poem in five minutes in a sort of stream of consciousness way that doesn't make sense. enjoy.