The Book of the Dead.

I'm alive,
Just trying to exist in the misery that is my life.
Living lowly,
Without many things,
No friends or family that give a damn,
That would make anyone depressed.

I look at the state of the world, and I am disgusted.
Just my corner of it is disappointing and disturbing.
Most people upset and confuse me,
The only people I connect with are philosophers and Rockstars.

I exist, I live, nobody said I have to like it, let alone be happy about it.
I lead a very isolating life, I choose it now because I don't really understand humanity as a whole, or the way people do things.
Everything frankly just pisses me off, so I stay to myself however alone that may make me.

I don't hold onto life,
Life won't let go of me.

It's not anger,
It's madness from all this suffering.

I'm not sad,
I am just empty.

There is no purpose or reason for me, for being, pain only tells me that I still have a long way to go,
For the dead don't feel,
And the time won't cease.

The sun shines,
The flowers grow,
Life moves on,
As I grow old.

The wind hugs the day,
The birds sing away,
But my sorrow stays,
Like the tears; it remains.

And scars to skin,
Breath and pain,
Just living until my own death day.

When cold will embrace me,
no more light to my face,
Nor words of sadness,
Or emptiness in its wake.

When the blood doesn't move,
And the eyes stay in place,
Where my mind sleeps eternally,
And I rest in an infinity.

No need for love,
no need for grace,
just peace in the nothingness, laying in an endless sea of space.

No more hanging my hat,
or me laying shoes by the mat,
no more setting clocks,
or packing lunch.

No more writing,
and no more words,
for when I die, my sorrow will leave this world.

I'm not sad... I'm just un.. happy.

Kill me with mercy, derliver me from this suffering,send me away into the nothing.

If you are so loving, Kill me now.

For I don't want heaven, and I'll bug the devil in hell, so give me the void.

Perhaps this is all I am good for.

I await my death so eagerly like a dog for the newspaper, or a child for christmas, like a mother for a baby, or the trees for the rain.

I await my death so willingly,
as if I am waiting for the bus,
or in line at the grocery store,
or like I am waiting for the mail.

I sleep and I dream of my death so clearly, so clearly that I am confused when I awake again, and I see no time at all where I am not awaiting patiently, patiently for my demise,for this life of mine to cease to be, for my dreams to become reality.

People always say that things will get better, they never say how much.

If better is me just functioning and getting out of a bed, then yeah I guess it's better.

I wouldn't even know what the other side of better looks like.
What it would feel like to wake up and want to.
To have something, anything to want to live for.
To feel like something you do matters however small.

I see a world full of people walking around with no reason, so they make up their own reasons.

I see a world full of stuff, places and things but no meaning for it at all.

I see people try, fight and hope,
and for many that's all anyone can do.

I on the other hand; well I see no reason for any of this.
I haven't a thing to wake up for.
I am bothered by my own lack of humanity, I am bothered by my existence, my sense of self worth is non existent.
Not that I am less than anyone else.
Just that everything is less, and I don't see the meanings or value in anything, everything I do, I do inspite of my feelings towards it.

Yet nothing else questions it's own existence, it's own purpose, nothing else thinks that far, it is just humanity.

You'll never see a tree ask why it is here, or a bird stop singing because it doesn't want to be here.

And I for the life of me cannot create my own reason, my own will,
I wonder if there is a reason for that?

Everything is just absurdity, and I stand and watch life, people and the world; but I am not apart of it.

I saw my death, more than one possibility, but I also saw me living life despite everything.

I couldn't see what path I am on,
seeing only instead pathways like branches of a tree.

I've seen myself outside of me, standing outside the world, outside of time, or anything we could measure.

And my thinking wasn't anything, the mind was leaving me, a space, a void is where I always go, and in it I am free of everything.

I am the hand,
I am the window,
I am the broken glass.

I create to destroy,
I rebuild the destruction,
all in the interest of a systematic system designed for chaos.