I like being busy
There's no surprise in that,
It's the only way to survive and make the voices quiet that argue in my head.
I like being busy
It's the only way I've known,
To burry down those feelings
That keep on surfacing on their own.
I like being busy
I enjoy being burnt out
Because that's how I muffle the agony from the bleeding cut.
I don't want a moment of silence
Because that's when
The voices in my head are
The loudest.
They Mourne, they agonize, they miss,
They sympathize.
And then all I have is this burning feeling which is
The darkest.

Everything i write
is about flowers and death
I think this is a sign
I want to be free

I can't take this boxed  in life
I want to run
Any chance i get

Fourty hours work in a hole
Is not who i am
I want to be in the wind

Flowers bloom with color
Their pedals flow through the breeze
Moving through and growing more life

I cannot have such a life
Therefore i want to run
But run to where?
The only solution i ever find

Is death
Death is the only freedom i know
But maybe I'll live
For the promise
That after this hell
We'll all be free
More then we can ever know

Anguish is me. Suffering is my blood. Pain is my heart. Despair is my brain. Numb is my touch. Gone is my soul. All I see is meaningless. All I know is nothing. My thoughts are like clouds showering acid, filling the growing rivers of depression. Sprouting more and more trees of anxiety. Sending bile snowballs cascading down mountains of doubt. Confusion festering, enough to black out the sun of belief. Traumatic obsession blinding my reason. Uncertainty fueling my unrealistically present pulse. The Reaper is hiding just out sight. A carrior-eater perched upon my brow. Grief and misery controlling my destiny. No distraction will conquor this day. Nor the days to come. I will function - but only enough to exist. My purpose is naught. My intentions selfish. Empathy was not made for me. I am in a world with no one else, yet they can see me. This world is quiet. This world is somber and yet more inviting. I've shattered the looking glass.

So don't come looking.

They said he made light and angels
They said he made some magic garden
So why do some angels live in hell?
They have clay skin and healing hands...

And no-one thanks them

But they keep helping
They receive no reward
Except pain
The pain feels like they stand in flames

And even in the smoke
He sits on his throne
No thank you, not pat on the back
Until the angels wither
And become black ash on the ground

I know that feeling of being lost
I know that feeling that there is no one out there who understands
What you're going through and the emotions that you have

But listen to me
Hear these words that I'm about to say
I understand what you're going through
The emotions that you are feeling
I understand and I want to help

Because once ago
I was going through
The same thing

I am trying really hard to live in this body, but the rent is too ******* high
and the paint is peeling off and
I’m too tired to patch it up.