I should waste more time revising. I feel as though it may benefit me; may I extrapolate the fact I stated waste more time, not spend. I could use that time practicing songs on my bass or beating Mario’s *** on the GameCube. I feel mediocre but that’s okay because I AM mediocre; and a sell-out. I should make that point clear. I smoke; not like a chimney, it depends on if I feel like combusting into a cloud of tobacco ash. I would happily crementate my being. I would happily get hit by a car and become the road ****. I would happily fall from a concrete building into a six foot deep cavern. Passive suicidal thoughts at eight in the mourning; just like coffee but it doesn’t make you need to ****. Just those bitter moments you need to get your day started on the wrong side of the bed.

We look like Tim Burton characters
In stature and mind.

How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the co-ordinate y
My soul exists, and so begging to die
In revising chem, maths and more all days.  
I hate thee more than the universe size
If Olber’s paradox was somehow true.
I hate thee freely, as men fight Mech 2.
I hate thee purely, as they waste their lives.
I hate thee with a passion put to use
Poetically procrastinating you.
I hate thee with hatred I cannot lose
With my lost UMS – hate thee with breath,
Pens, tears, of all my strife – and, if God choose,
I shall only be free when I’m with death.

The end is nigh.
This bright light,
This love which will not release its claws
Is blinding me.
I love her, but i want this to end.
Let it end, or lift me.
Release her claws and let me embrace the warmth.

Her glow is seen by many though.
It is sought after and although
I have the Ace, I,
I seem to have let it fall somewhere-
I must find it.
Dia, present this gem to me,
Let me love it.

I do not know who I am and there's really nothing sadder than this,
especially when people are constantly questioning you about who you want to be and you don't know what to say or how to act.

I can hardly keep my thoughts together, I don't know how to put them in order. And I--
I am losing myself everyday as I give everything my utmost devotion,
only to find out that I have not been given any in return. 

At this hour of night, I feel empty and useless.
And it's probably true that this tear-stained sheet of paper I'm embedding my thoughts in will mean more to me than I ever did to anybody.

And it's sad because I could never blame them. 
There isn't a specific character that is outshining the radiance of others to love. 
There aren't anymore dreams, or hopes, or hobbies to hold on to. 

Everything is a lie. My entire being is a lie. 
I am caught at intersection point, 
attempting to busy myself by etching out words on the graveyard.

"Come be my savior."
You are not there, and you will never be.
You, my darling, are a lie as well. 

I am not able to kick, or writhe, or scream,
for I am trying to jot down what I'm thinking.
And sometimes when you don't know what you're thinking or why you're thinking,
you just remain completely frozen, with your breath ****** straight out of your lungs 
by those you love the most. 

I can never rely on anyone. 
Nobody cares about you no matter how much they state they do.
They are all a lie, too. 

I am immortal, and I am utterly dead.
I can hardly feel my fingertips at the touch of this pen 
as I am encompassed by a numbness so cold it burns.
For I am a lie, as well.

My head is lacking
the capacity to think
in straight lines and squares.