Is it possible for your stomach to crave music, miss it instead of your mind?
Is it possible to have a life so ironic?
Is it reasonable to hate yourself for something that you love?
Is it fair to suffer at the hands of your own fate?

Is it logical, that I crave the attention but make sure to hide myself from the world?
Why is it, that my only voice is the written word?

I don’t make sense. What else is new?
I wish to find happiness in my solitude, not to socialize myself, or do so with others.

I’m disgusted by the cliches I readily produce… and the only way to be ingenious is to read and reread others’ cliches.
Irony, is the key word here.
The theme of my life.
I wonder if I would deal with any ones death the same way I dealt with my grandfather’s?
Crying under the table at 16; Throwing tantrums; laughing; Suppressing; Forgetting completely.

It’s repetitive. My way of dealing with everything my perception finds too boggling and threatening.

I have so much hate in me, that’s bottled up to erupt any second now; to pour and cover, inevidabely, everyone.

Pointless. I live from weekend to weekend.
I’m not satisfied. There’s a spark of happiness that passes quickly and I am lost again.
I’m missing nothing, yet I am incomplete.
Risky nonsence suddenly makes sense to me; as if I wanna die.

Help mes in the dark.

Life kicks me in the face;
it tells me what I loathe to hear:
here is what you want
here is what you need
And my body,
it gangs up against me;
limbs and headaches, cells and nose bleeds
gushing, rushing
When my mind is numb
my love for idols
and hate for self
the God within me;
breaking free,
creating what I accept
And what I won’t see.
And the Music,
my only fluid conscious
the only train of thought
In a chaos of nonsence.

And when I finally come to realize,
Staring into my own two eyes
– Straight and hard,
When my mind fails to reason
It’s only then I start,
Turning to the logic of my heart.


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