I came across a picture today,
a moment frozen, bright and full of life.
She was smiling—so effortlessly,
like the past never weighed her down.

She found her way, I see it now,
embracing all the things she left behind.
The hobbies she once set aside,
the laughter she forgot how to share—
they are hers again, and they shine.

But where does that leave me?
The one left behind, standing still,
watching from a distance,
realizing that I have nothing,
not even a place to start.

She rediscovered herself,
while I am still sifting through ruins,
searching for pieces of me
that I never thought I’d have to rebuild.

I was always a part of something,
tied to a life that no longer exists.
Now, I face the question I never dared ask:
Who am I, when I am only me?

The world moves forward, time doesn’t wait,
and I know I must start again.
But every step feels heavier,
every day feels longer,
and the path ahead is one I have to carve alone.

Maybe one day, I’ll understand.
Maybe one day, I’ll smile like that too.
But for now, I am just trying—
trying to begin from nothing.

Vices hold me in a grip
living is a ****** up game,
I mash buttons
until I bend and flip
breakdown, take another hit:
I’ve relinquished
my prime of life
wishing it was
someone else’s fault
that I’m stranded on this island,
this is why I succumb to
vices

It started as a wild ride
that turned into the spins
a religion of motion sickness,
wanting to stop
but always caving in:
it spirals through my mind
filling damage to the brim
emotions are meant
to process here,
now they only
dissipate in chagrin,
as rueful ignorance catapults
this living hell to
greater heights
without having to lift a finger:
my self-inflicted violence,
a byproduct of
vices

Left with no
rationale to care,
only a small bend in time
where the spindle
came undone;
it's here I revel in
self-despair,
as a loser who
always failed to listen,
a captain without a vision
ready to drown in
cognitive dissonance
because it’s easier
to believe a lie
than to accept how life is:
where are my
vices?

god, i feel so unpretty
out of everyone's league
twenty-thousand pressing on top of me.

perhaps they are all too intimidated
by the siren who sinks, ill-fated
cursed by fatal beauty that leaves them fixated.

yet none brave the dive
seeing what may reside
in the depths of the briny tide
of my soul.

Your friends acknowledge my insecurity
Late-night talks about your history
And the pretty girls before me
"You see him too much,
You take him away from us"
Why am I there?
And why would I care?
Maybe I am a phase,
Slowly I will fade.

I am someone who—
Anyone can rely on,
A shoulder to cry on,
A sail to carry them on,
Through the worst of times,
Any time.
But when it’s my turn
To face the tide,
There’s no one by my side.

I have a heart—
That can forgive anyone and anything,
Any number of times,
Over and over.
But never once could it forgive,
If it was I who made the mistake.

There is a kind of suffering too deep for words,
a weight that settles in the bones,
dragging the soul into an abyss where even despair has lost its voice.
You wake, you breathe, you move—
but it is not living. It is merely the absence of death.

Nothing matters.
Not love, not laughter, not the sun rising over the rooftops.
You watch the world as if from behind a glass,
separated, untouched,
a ghost among the living.

You search for meaning,
as a man drowning in the ocean searches for land.
But there is none—only an endless stretch of water,
only the slow pull of the tide.

And so you sink, without struggle, without protest.
Because what is there left to hold onto,
when even the suffering has become dull?