the best of me

There's that familiar feeling again
in the pit of my chest and heart
the unsettling knowledge that you're back on the streets
when's it going to stop?
I block every number you call me from
it hurts, but I'm mostly gone and there's nothing to discuss
logic doesn't sit well with you
and you've got nothing to say but it was all my fault
as if I did anything but try to heal you
leave me a voicemail about hating me
leave me a voicemail about you're sorry
leave me a voicemail about you love me
leave me a voicemail about suicide
I've got nothing left to say
I gave you all I had
and you destroyed the best of me

Silent Watcher

That right there was my perfect little family
over the years I was going to watch them grow
they were the ones to fill me with hope
then I found out things I didn't want to know
turns out they weren't really happy at all.

Unfinished

We're made of the same cloth, so don't desecrate me.
He yelled at me and made me cry when I showed him my list of people I wanted to die.
I musta been about 8. I learned from those mistakes.
You're nothing special and you're looking pretty old.
Wannabes make me laugh.

I hate all reminders of you. I hate you. I love you. I hate that there is someone out there just like you. He's in this very town. Looks like you and acts like you, sings the way you do. Draws me closer and repels me. Get the fuck away. Frustration. A creature like him shouldn't exist and neither should you. I love you. Get the fuck away from me. I hate you. I love you.
It's over.

The same chipped paint. Different location, same room. The one I'd always sat my back against it's wall, staring up at the ceiling, noticing how "Real" everything looks. No fake wood paneling this time, but the same stained, off-white ceiling. It always comes down to this. Here I am, sitting here on my bed, alone, always alone. The same bittersweet suffering. Different day, same pain. My pupils always constrict in this mood. They get so small I can hardly see. What I can see though is the more things change, the more they stay the same. Always in a box. Alone in a box, live in a box, die in a box, buried in a box. I'll just lay here, hungry and rotting.

The days all blur together with no real sense of purpose, whether I'm working or not it makes no difference. Why am I here? I didn't ask for this. I'm tired of existing so much. If we could all just die out as a species it'd be so fine. I'm getting really sick of a thing called "time".

Shhh, calm down, it'll be okay, we're all going to die soon one day anyways.
Hush, hush, we're on our way down now. There's nothing anyone can do and it'll be the end soon.

I'm bored. It's not so much the suffering as the lack of feeling anything beautiful. The magic in this life has died. There's nothing left but cold, stark reality and I think that I must see it better than most. Everything is temporary. What's the point of trying to save money, save lives, save anything when it all ends so quickly?

I'm waiting, still just waiting. I always have been. I was born waiting. I never wanted to be here. The moment I could think I knew I wasn't meant for this. What's the point of resting if you don't get any sleep? You teeter on the edge of breaking, yet it gives you enough to feebly wander on. Is it normal to be tired all the time? I can't remember a restful night of sleep in many years. I always wake up feeling remorse or regret, or maybe even just disappointment. Why am I still here? Again? Today? It's another day? Really? Why?

I open my eyes, sigh and pull myself out of bed. It's the hardest thing in the world to do. Maybe if I actually slept soundly and didn't wake up every hour it might feel okay.
Still, I open my eyes, no light streaming down, and if it had it wouldn't be beautiful anyways, it'd just keep me awake, laying there somewhere between sleep and consciousness, not dead but dreaming.