Writing down your thoughts
Really fucks up your mentality
Your weakness seeps through onto the paper
And you’re just this weak mess with a pencil and paper trying to build yourself a backbone and failing miserably everytime
I hate it but I can’t stop
Indifferent
I merge from person to person,
Looking for a place to stay.
I find no one to believe in,
For in the end,
I all despise.
Beneath the depths of each,
Lies nothing more than originally projected.
Hard! Shallow!
Cold, empty.
Where is the depth?
You’re no different.
I’m tired of looking.
I’m on my own,
Yet I’m tired of that, too.
I am
the troubled child
A child of imperfection
Imperfected from its core.
Who’s thoughts ponder the depths of everything flawed; Only to show myself comfort
I perceive sameness in kinship
Yet thrive in self eccentricity
I wonder of the impossible
And am disappointed by the brutality that exists in such a harsh world
I tell myself different is good
When I am told to be good is not to be different
My brain wanders
But I know it isn’t lost
Christmas morning
has become as casual as any other day.
Sister’s gone,
at work.
I lay in my bed, without desire to mount.
Mother’s drenched in the fatigue
from last night’s work.
I can see it in her eyes.
Father is sitting, working,
endlessly.
He says he’s okay,
but I know.
I await the happiness that once was our Christmas.
I await the magical world I once percieved this to be.
Only to realize the only magical world I lost was my childhood.
(Source: ryhaaaan)
(Source: middleeasternpoetry)
(Source: mis4dventurous)
