all those rage, and i'm still here?

fifteen

TW: Existential thoughts, Mental Health, Topics which might be disturbing to some

"Vanishing Point."

There's just those days,
Where you're body's exhausted,
Your mind is tired,
Your heart's devoid of emotion,
When all of a sudden,
All of a sudden–
There's an overwhelming feeling,
With an underlying thought,
I want to disappear,
I want to run away from everything,
Abandon everything and start over,
Or continue to wish
Oh, how I wish,
How I wish I could just vanish
Vanish into the thin air of nothingness,
As if I had never existed in the first place.

I have never liked living
I've always wondered how and why,
How odd one could be,
That is me
Not one to be liked,
Nor to make an effort to be liked
Somehow I wonder how easily could it be
To be normal for once,
Yet I'm not made for normal,
And I guess I'm just not normal
Somehow I ask myself how easy it is to become human,
To converse like a human,
To act like a human,
And so I mimic how others are
And the farther I get from the realest part of me.

Yet I can't help but wonder
Why I'm odd and crazy like this,
Must it be the residue trauma,
Or was I just born this different?
Everyone talks about embracing difference
Using an excuse that it's only uniqueness
When in fact,
When you're different than the mass,
The mass isolates you
You're not as human,
And normal or free, or happier
You think differently,
That suddenly your complexity poses danger,
And everyone thinks you're insane.
What can I say, anyway?
I guess I am.

Creating someone like me,
Must have been a lot of work
I understand so much to the point of exhaustion,
And I expect the same to others
Must it be that I am intelligent
Yet I wonder how stupid I can be in the most basic things,
My mind wanders and wanders
And gets so lost in the existentialism,
And I embrace nihilism like it's my second skin,
I must probably, truly, and certainly
Am insane.
Could I be?
Just that I breathed today and wondered again,
If I had been made for a purpose, what would it be?
I could not fathom the idea of existence,
As if I had only been birthed to the idea of being a complete outcast.
To become different was a uniqueness, was it?
But how come the more I breathe,
The more I want to vanish?
Is living this exhausting, after all?