It is always upsetting
to have known someone for awhile
and not even know them at all.
It is even more upsetting
when that person is yourself.

My hatred towards these people
incinerates my feelings towards the world,
bottles up and squeezes itself
into a half-pint bottle
slowly puffing out the edges
until it explodes,
and slowly deteriorates the container
that is supposed to hold my emotions.

The light in my life
comes from the small things.
Such as the sunshine,
when you can have the brightness
touch a different sense.
The trill you get from observing
fear and terror strike another's life
other than yours. When you can
watch it from the comfort
of your couch, getting enjoyment
from another's pain.
When I am in complete isolation
I am my happiest. My swarmed thoughts
are released
and I am free.

Much like the rest of humanity,
I have an infatuation
with escapism.
I feel I am too young
to have gone through
and done the things
that I have done.

I suffer in a lake of navy blue
suffocating me until it is unbearable.
One time, it was - but my attempt
to slip away did not succeed.
Other times, I sink into a bed of gray
drifting among the weeks
not feeling anything - no happiness,
no joy, no love - but also no depression.
I prefer
treading water in misery
than my immune grayness.

I think
I am meant
to be alone.