A walking path of dirt and dust

Ruins as far as the eye can see,

But from times that have yet to come.

A spirit broken in advance for he knows.



The soul bleeds and keeps the head spinning,

"Keep to yourself" it says,

So I did. Forget about it a little, reach for a hand,

And then it comes back and breaks you into two again.



I hate it. I don't like this feeling.

But it's what made me, in a way, and I'm thankful for it.

But I despise this feeling and these thoughts.

Walking a constant path devoid of desire or purpose,



I don't enjoy it. I never did enjoy it.

Maybe it's just depression but I have to think it's more than that.

What would give you a reason to fall on your knee,

Holding on what you were sitting on?



The soul broke and whatever reason to live I had left me.

However this gave me new questions to ask myself.

I keep on going because of a small hope that I'll find an answer.

Yet even after a self-made decision to live alone and lonely,



The answers come but none are those I seem to seek.

I don't know what I seek. I'd say I forgot,

But my bleeding soul reminds me I never seeked anything.

Or maybe I did, something I shouldn't be looking for.



Why would I look for salvation with what little I've done

And how little I lived.

But I don't see anything else in this desolate landscape.

My daily wish for death, rest or dream speaks in my place.



Just keeping away, there's still something

To be enjoyed in life. But now I got an additional answer

For a question I asked a few years ago:

Are the good things worth the pain?



I can only speak for me, and so I will.

No. Would I be wishing for delivrance so often

If I had the faith in still going through hell?

But it isn't hell. It's not fair for those who go through it.



I'm just going through a path in the middle of ruins and cinder.

Anguish might as well be my companion,

And it is. My body still shivers every minute and still

I linger in sheets, begging to dream more.



A cry in the void of night

Tears shed on the ground

I don't see the light

So I'll let myself drown.



Even then I wake up

Day after day hoping for nothing.

Keep on entertaining my mind,

Nameless and so numerous they are



Thanks for them but curse myself

I know I shouldn't but I continue.

Diverting my mind 

And forgetting about my soul.



In the end my existence seems abstract

There's simply no words for the language of the soul.

But there's one thing I want to mention

What sometimes make my entire body cry.



The feeling of having to live with knowing

That there's nothing worth living for.

Nihilism it is, but it's more than this.

Death is fine, but is a life of nothingness too?



This contradicts itself, but there's no doubt in my mind

That the colorless desolate landscape I keep waking up to

Made me numb to the cries of a pierced soul.

Ethereal cry of a bleeding mind, only calmed in thoughts of its consolation prize.



___



The fact that I don't see anything worthwhile, worth living for, worth fighting for, 

only give me a wish of a painless death. I saw that in my dreams, 

and Death had always been such a comforting thing. The most welcoming hand and warmest one too.

Maybe my recent acceptance of other humans was an attempt at finding an answer with them. 

Yet the more I kept them open the more I hated them. 

Still today I hope to find at least one person to help me out.

This isn't something I can do alone. My soul is pierced, I bleed and I wail. 

In the end I'm only human. 

Cursed be this inability to help myself. I would want to curse others but I can't. 

As much as I want to ignore others, if my hope is part of this curse

then there's no reason to hope. But at least I would be decided in finally ending it all. 

If that happens then the only regret I would have is the fact that I never really lived. 

For all the hobbies I try to have and the interests I possess, 

they're only substitutes and a patchwork for what I've been missing. 

Or more accurately, what I had and what suddenly got pierced and left a bleeding hole inside of me.

Those diversions are only a small band-aid that soak inside the hole and end up being tainted. 

Part of myself, maybe, but they're easily removed and don't affect much anymore. 

A soaked and near-useless band-aid. That's all everything is.

New is good but there's no point if what what becomes "used to" 

becomes useless and a burden (small or not) to live with.

In the end, when the soul bleeds and the spirit cries, 

all I ask for is for it to stop in my mind, but my body tires itself, 

sometimes as if I had a serious mental issue, 

and I can't do anything but ask for it to stop and see these people cry and rot away in pain.