MSI

Sometimes I want to kill myself.But then I don’t because there are too many people I’d miss.So instead I sit and stare at the wall.Status quo.When’s it my turn?This is the suicide note of someone who will never die.“I am all random.”Is this a poem?Is this acting?Is this attention-seeking?How can these feelings be for attention if I never share them with anyone?How can anyone fucking tell me that it will be all right, that there is meaning in life, that I am special, when it is never all right, everything is jumbled and “95% of the world feels the same way you do, you’re not alone.”Well isn’t that comforting as fuck?To say that everyone goes through “this”. What the fuck is “this”, anyway?If I’m so goddamned special, if I’m such an individual, then how the fuck can anyone say they know what I feel like? No one else has my brain, my psyche, my id, my ego, my superego, my subconscious, my experience, my memories, my exact CD collection or the same compilation of family and friends. No one writes what I write or has the same dreams I do or even really knows me. So how fucking dare anybody tell me that. And if it’s true?Then there is no God.And why am I here then? Other than to wait until life is over?You do not know me.I have chosen specific information about myself to share with you.You will never know me.Ever.And the real tragedy of all of this, is that Love exists.If it didn’t, being alive wouldn’t be so painful.I find myself staring at the wall too much.Then I blink and weeks, months, years have passed.Where the fuck am I going?What am I doing?This could be art.This could be creativity.But it’s not. It’s me. It’s today. It’s now. It is at my fingertips.What do you think of that?What will you do about it?What have I ever done for you?Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing.That word looks like a monster now. And if we say words enough they lose meaning which makes me wonder if they ever had meaning to begin with. Are we doomed to search for meaning and either die disappointed or trick ourselves somewhere along the way?I hate this so much. This. “This”. Me. I hate me.Today I took a long walk and cried in front of strangers.I gazed up at the sky and I didn’t feel anything.Today is everyday, and everyday is today pummeling my head into rock.I lied. This is just a poem.Don’t worry about me.