Go ahead and hate me, but this is my life
Life is meaningless. Why do I do it? Why does anybody do it? Did I miss something...something important. Like meaning, purpose, love, faith, desire, pleasure.
I'm tied of being alone. I want someone to love me. But there's no one. No one around at all. So I write. I write but it doesn't come out right. And the gray mist envelopes my life, leaving me lost, wandering in my own desolation.
I'm desperate, crying to get out, out of this spinning madness. Forever spinning, spinning. But I'm too dizzy to get up. I can't see anything. I'm drowning and there is no one around. Except white ghosts of faces that mock me. They circle my body, like a swarm of sharks, coming in for the kill. They bombard me with their words. They pick me apart piece by piece. I die word by word. The agony is insufferable, but I am silent. I cannot scream. To scream would be to call attention to myself, which would attract more sharks.
They tell me they care and I belive them at first. But then their lies betray them and I see them for who they really are. They don't care about me, they only care about themselves. Then I discover that everyone in this world cares only for themselves. We are a people of greed and selfishness.
I spin myself into oblivion. It is easier not to care. It does not hurt so bad. The numbness takes over and I can live a few more hours. I neatly put away any stray emotions, stuffing them into old boxes, thinking that someday they will break their bonds and burst forth. But they never do. They are faded spaces I have come to forget.
I only long to me missed, cared for, loved. I want someone to come home to.
"When its cold I'd like to die"