WHAT ARE WE?

Time on my hands -
like blood at a ****** scene.

My face muscles frozen as I kneel before
the last form of belief that shall ever exist.


WHAT AM I -
But a time traveler that has but witnessed extinctions and destruction.
The last human shadow abandoned by moral values.
A forgotten and abandoned generosity at the cemetery of Existance.

I can barely remember how I got here,
As never have I imagined the world this place to be.

Never have I thought that wrinkles on the heart can tell such sad stories,
Nor did I imagine how hard it would be to keep the waterfall of words
from running over the cliff of the lips.
For, some eyes in this world have witnessed greater pain
than it can ever be fairly monumentalized.

WHAT HAVE I -
But grotesque images
And some predecessors' stories.
Nothing do I see but what world of agony wants me to see.


The energy of sorrow and despair
outbalanced the warm and bright rays of circle of birth.


WHAT ARE WE –
But soulless and narcissistic
yet self-abandoned creatures,
that criticize and worship
random crumbs and pieces of good deeds.
As for the better seldom does anyone know.
  
WHAT AMAZES US –
But our true forgotten existence -
Mystery of humanity, that surprises as a sudden shock of electricity -
That is nothing but a last sign of natural instincts that existed in
someone else's stories of what we had used to be.

Nothing to remember -
But melodramatic elegies
Of wars and losses,
Self-Abundance and social negligence
celebrated at the Inferno of wasted souls.

What do we love?
What have we become?

I'm one step closer to
Losing my ****, I say,
Knowing very well that
I'll need more than prayers
To keep me in a state of contempt.

Am I too much to handle?
Socrates once questioned
His own existence, so
Why can't I? There'll be
Nothing left of this page
If I speak my mind
And scatter my brain matter
Onto these overnight fears  --
Not in a literal sense, unfortunately,
But in a way only I can see.

When I think about the times I
Ever had a true sense of keenness,
All I see is a notepad with
As much emptiness as
The ideas inside of my cranium --
But look at the **** you'r--
Can I be any more clear? This ****
Is nothing but another daily reminder
We tell ourselves each day; don't
Act like you haven't thought this way.

When I've found the answer,
I can say that my abstract outbalanced
The complex and my bad outweighed
The good, because what else can't
A 16-year-old boy keep to himself?