adolescent anger

•old poem•

There's an exceptionally immense part of me that's not sure if I'm really here.

When I wave my hand inches above my face, I'm surprised it's not to the very least translucent. I know I exist, but surely not substantial, right?

Sometimes I feel more like a ghost,
something which undoubtedly exists in thesis, but might not be entirely real either.

I want to die. Actually no I don't. I just wish...

Being completely alive in the real world is fine too... but anything other than this bisected state of physique is fine to me in general.

Wow that got dark real fast haha. I don't... know. I don't know if this is me talking or the lump in my throat or the burning in my lungs or the carbon monoxide, already halfway through depriving my body of oxygen.

I think the scariest part of death is the inexplicably unforeseeable nature it possesses.

You can kiss goodbye in fifty years with the noble prize in your brittle hands and laughing triumphantly or seconds after reading this mess of a page, having lived an ephemeral life, with so much to live for and a wasted college degree your parents threw everything into, but you can't choose.

Anyways, I don't know...and frankly, I don't give it that much thought...I think. Maybe it's a recurring thought I'll have to think about in another decade as the possibility increases. Or maybe as I'm writing this down on my shitty notepad app, the ceiling above will collapse and crush me to my death.

If I'm lucky enough, maybe the very few of the unfortunate souls who got the ill-fated luck to get to know me might even miss me. I just hope they do me the courtesy of organising an assemblage to throw dirt onto my lifeless body and cover me from all the shame.

And maybe when I'm floating above, ascending to heaven or wherever, I'll get to see my own stinky ass carcass of a corpse being put six feet underground.
That'd be pretty cool.

xooldpoem