How can I make it possible to run into the forest, without having to return home?
Why do I constantly get the feeling that I have to to be as fucked up as I am to give my ugliness a deeper meaning. Actually nothing really does have a meaning. So much truth in such a cliché sentence.
To draw blood and tell no one.
To die alone and tell no one.
To suffer and tell no one
Why does this give my life a meaning, like nothing else could.
Shame. What a strong word. It leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.
Ugly.
Ugliness in soul.
Ugliness in body and mind.
Scars, marks.
Time flies.
The pieces just break apart more and more.
A white ceramic teakettle, adorned with blue ornaments.
This specific image constantly pops into my head.
With every scar it breaks more.
With every second the cracks deepen.
Pieces become smaller. But it doesn't turn into fine sand and peacefully distributes into the four winds, like I want it to.
Instead it's pieces, my pieces, disappear between trashbags under a dirty bridge. Between addicts and society's rejects.
What a load of shit.
___________________________________Songs I listened to while writing:
Swimming Pool ~ by Marie Madeleine
Goth ~ by Sidewalks and Skeletons
Alone~ by Miguel Angeles, cyandream, Ezekiel
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryJust a few poems and random thoughts of mine. Sometimes depressing, sometimes not.
