Just like the 9057398267298 people everywhere. I want to like myself. But I can’t. Sorry. My friends tolerate me. I’m afraid of people. My chest is collapsing. I’m not fun anymore. I write poems, but they suck. I watch movies, and I have hope and dreams that will never happen. Love doesn’t exist. I’m ugly. No one will ever want me, and if he does, I’ll fuck it up anyway. I don’t deserve everything I have.
I wrote a poem:
Rejection
has a way of reminding us
of the journeys failed.
It creeps in where it’s least expected
and bombards
the walls of the mind.
Depression and melancholy
flood over the
broken façade of perfection.
Freeing the dams,
letting the tide of truth
wash over avoidance and composure.
No longer skilled, attractive or desirable,
Self-destruction erodes
the positivity constructed.
See
the cycle,
like the inevitability of the tides
rushing over abandoned satisfaction.
Feel
the chilling, grey water
isolating you from
all who reside on the mainland.
Hear
the roar
of doubt,
and the drips of what could have been.
Smell
the envy,
lingering toward the lucky ones
who will not suffer your fate.
Taste
everything,
but never notice sweetness
or love.
Sail away into your thoughts,
disregarding beauty, happiness
and anyone who attempts to fight the undertoe.
Drown to end it all,
never again feel the disconnect
and hatred of the raging seas.
