Does it seem like we people of the same tongue, mind and transparent ever crumbling cloaks, live the life of the unwanted self loathing tragedy that never seems to end.

Those around me see a helpless aura of depression which is not there, when this arises I let my fingers talk to paper and what follows is nothing but another vague writing that no one will understand or care about. to them, to you I am nothing but a self loathing too emotional overly depressed nothing poet.

And I write,

I can feel the beats of my ceiling fan and listen to the sound of my heart second by second loosing its rhythm with no worries of this, yet no tears will fall, as much as I try, remember back, black and white images rushing like a careless head on collision of my mind and soul, how do I express this, I can not find the words nor will the emotions show themselves, I scream in my head to the heavens hoping the stars will fall and the earth burn to ashes, the hopeless hidden rage calls for my soft hands to rub gently up against my hardening mask with a quick gasp feeling only that I have drowned in the yellow tented air that surrounds me.