If my life were a book, then all its pages would be black.
Of this purposeless existence, and just that, I am tired.
With my bounded horizon, I am about to suffocate.
Of pain, and the lack of a reason for it;
Of aimlessness and the dearth of any achievement;
I am in ruins.

Of un-called-for rains and suppressed tears
Of remorse,
And the lack of love and the feel of being loved
Of betrayal and things unsaid
And with none to hold a hand or to listen
I am running into chaos.

This is not a passing phase,
I know
Nor is this a shade of youth
Rather it’s me-
The person I am.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Maybe you have become so comfortable with the pain that you fear happiness. Maybe you are afraid of the white ink on those black pages. Maybe?
Maybe you want to push away those who love you the most. Maybe it is too hard to make an effort anymore. Maybe you are scared of changing the status quo. Maybe its the pain that keeps you alive. Maybe...there are too many maybe's?