Our planet is like
A spec of dirt in the space
Our ego bigger than the space
In the human race

We call ourselves
**** sapiens, the wisest race
Still we fight bitter than animals
Dismissing the nature's grace

Of being unique.

Why
does the pettiness
of my silence
affect you
so badly

why
do you expect
by default
an adjustment
to your actions

why
are you quick
to call me out
on my shortcomings
but blind to yours

why
can you hear
only the sound
of your voice
and deaf to
the sound of mine

why
do you believe
that this control
is craved and
makes you
a saviour

why
can't you see
that your insecurities
are laughing
so loudly
at your ego

Instagram embodies a heart shell
negates to incarnate the beat.
Rejecting its blood flow,
Projecting its cell count
to a matter of likes.

Instagram is home to a
headspace with heartaches of
beautiful ideas
that want to be felt
but can only be seen.

These days connection's connected to
soft eye lids and caressing  fingertips to a screen.

A community that caters to itself and parades;
ego
promotion
Or validation.

For purpose of
self importance,
inferiority complexities,
Knowledge and denial.

And has
No conviction
No components to give back,
And no means for "welcome"

All should be exposed
and recognized
as selfish public masturbators.

The boring stereotype.
The trench coat kind of indecent exposure.

Sad little man on the bus.
Sad little man in the streets.

Sad little man stroking at a park
Sad little man stroking in the bars.

Newton's cradle freely swinging between his thighs.

Yahoo freedom!
As she gives to all

But,
God ****** the double-edge blade

It's awkward,
arrogant
and sticks to my hand when touched.

I'd of rather have a flesh wound.
But I unfortunately must watch him finish.

I want to scream until I convulse into a ****** rage of anger.
I can't believe what these figures tell me.
They shrug me off like an old rancid carpet of emotions.
They don't want my problems, but God forbid I ignore theirs and suddenly I'm the villain.
Not only do I have to keep limping as I carry the weights of myself, but I also have to carry one, no, two, no... five.
Five.
And everyone acts as if the Prozac has magically given me the HP boost to carry this on.
I ask for help when my sore body can't hold anymore.
I just feel like--
"IT'S YOUR FAULT I'M THIS WAY."
"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO AGREE WITH ME ON EVERYTHING NO MATTER HOW BAD IT IS."
"YOU HAVEN'T HELPED ME AT ALL."
"PLEASE STROKE MY EGO MORE AS I PRETEND TO BE DEPRESSED LIKE YOU."
...Should I remind you of what I did for you?
How I tore my ligaments just so you can keep walking all over me?
How I forced to bite my tongue so hard that I began to ***** my own blood?
How I stayed through your ******* problems that had me rolling my eyes out of their sockets?
If only I can pretend to feel this **** as much as you do.
If only I could be a stone that you resemble to.
If only I could be so self-absorbing and privileged like you.
I wish I didn’t have to feel like this. I wish I wasn't starved of happiness that I rightfully deserve.
That I've actually worked for.
Unlike you.
Who was handed everything to them since birth.
Maybe that’s why you have the tendency to run away from your problems.
You’re scared.
You can’t grow up.
You think everyone will conform to your idealization of how a life is lived.
Because maybe that's what your parents wrongfully taught you.
You want to be the savior of those who are depressed.
You use their illness to your advantage to get some sick satisfaction off their pain.
And when they're left to tell you how wrong you are for that, you s--
"WELL HOW ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO HELP?"
"IT'S NOT MY FAULT THEY'RE DEPRESSED."
"I TRIED TO HELP BY STATING THEY WERE FINE EVERY TIME."
"NOW PLEASE LET'S TALK ABOUT ME!"
... It's atrocious that one will pretend to be some God to a person that is losing their faith.
These sad, sick people will keep stroking your ego because they have nothing else, no one else, but you.
Or so you think.
And you know that. You will keep playing this stupid game called Life by using cheat codes on single player for your own self-indulgence.
You will keep acting like the hero for the distressed damsel waiting in the other castle.
And you will keep quitting the game in a rage when you're sidelined by other quests.
It truly is selfish and disgusting.
But what you may not know, is that the damsel in distress has her own strategy of escape.
She has had to survive this game called Life amplified to Hard Mode.
She knows the way of this unfair game, ghosted to seem like a helpless poor soul in need of salvation from some sort of cowardly knight.

But what you, or anyone doesn't know,
Is she is almost at the end credit screen.
Where there is a happily ever after,
Made possible, completely without you.

Can we become better that what we are?
We dream of better future.
But we become worse, become bitter
every time our life runs into our worst dreams.
We hope to forget, we hope to let go.
But become restless, become hollow
looking at the parts we are missing
the parts we took from each other
that we have fed to our ego.
Can we become better that what we are?