u/wayne_blank_inside

“Anything”

I don’t even care about anything. Nothing brings me joy, comfort, love, care.
I’m just tired of all of it. My kids faces, my phone, the tv, walks, music.
I’m tired of it all. It’s just the same. The same shit. The same day going by. The same clock turning. The same feelings churning. I’m burning.

Blah blah blah. The same shit. Write my feelings out. Spell my inner world on to paper for no one to look at. Silent works never cared for. So why do it. I feel it brings no relief. I see no one really cares. So why continue. Why keep going. Why wake up once more and continue this pointless fight until death. The “little moments?” Are they even worth it when encapsulated in turmoil and strife. Grief and sadness. Pain and apathy.
Why!? Why do I keep going? Why keep writing? All I have are bits of present moments and calm understanding. Crumbs to a buffet.
Is that enough to sustain me until my plate is full again. How can I believe that will even happen? What faith would that entail? Whose faith would that even come from? I hold no faith my own. I hold no belief my own.
Let down and beaten is my belief.
Strangled and forlorn. Suffocated and lied to.
My being is parts fragmented into scriptures of my beatings. I am the culmination of worth chipped away by my abusers.
I am nothing more than them. Nothing less than me.
I’m tired of the confusion. Tired of this life. Exhausted from this writing. Lost amidst the backdrop of daily encounters. Stricken by misfortunes placed on me as a boy. What point is there anymore if nothing brings joy, complacency, or contentment. I have nothing. I am nothing. I produce nothing. I induce nothing.

I just am truly so fucking over it. This game of life. Suicide isn’t so bad. I won’t have to grieve the torture I will have placed on my kids shoulders. I won’t have to know the over bearing weight I placed on my wife which would ultimately crush her. I’d be rid of it for good. Done with it finally. They’ve broken me so much beyond repair. Thought it possible for a moments time that I could repair. I could mend. I could be present. The more I pick up my pieces, the more they crumble ever fragile. I’m dust now. No physical pieces to hold. Nothing to even try to put together. Unmended and irreproachable. There is nothing left.

So what to become of my ashes. What to become of my lineage. Where does my story go? When do I write the last page. Is this the last page, or do I continue to write this pointless dribble over and over until the day I finally burst. Until I finally give in. They won, I just haven’t opened my eyes to it yet.

“18 months”

It’s been 556 days since you read my words, felt my wrath through verbiage most procured. Thoughts most absurd. Images most obscured.

I said my piece and blew with the wind. Never heard, seen, felt again.

But I see you.
You adorn my nightmares.
You interrupt my thoughts.
You distort my imagination.

But slowly you’re fading.
No longer parading.

I saw you on film.
The whole lot of you.
The core of my life.
The keepers of my memories.
The betrayers of my being.

I feel the tension in which you’re immersed.
I hear the silence you all sit in.
I see the ways in which you stare.
Despairingly, hidden, angrily, dumbfounded, confused, and lost.

You all have me on your mind.
Quietly looming over you in darkness.
An unrecognizable feeling, unsettling you, distressing you.
It’s me.
It’s the feeling of your betrayal. How it festers in you I need not care. You can feel it as anger towards me. Or think the delusion that this predicament is my fault.
Feel what lie comforts you.
I need not your blankets of insecurity.
I live, breathe, and feel reality.
You’re engulfed in oppression.

I feel warmth from the sun.
You deny its existence.

Let your thoughts wonder and ponder the past. The nostalgic family we were. The love, care, presents, actions, words. Look at them through her distortion, her narrative, their abuse.

Parents of grandiose nature that hindered our self for their gain.
Crumbled our life to build up their palace.

But look at us now. I’m standing outside your decrepit fort; outside the floundering family.
Breathless you still find yourselves from reading my words.
Mindless words still dribble from her lips.

I speak in truths while ya’ll live in lies.
I found my self while y’all sending spies.
I’m living my life while ya’ll’s withers and dies.

“18 months”

It’s been 556 days since you read my words, felt my wrath through verbiage most procured. Thoughts most absurd. Images most obscured.

I said my piece and blew with the wind. Never heard, seen, felt again.

But I see you.
You adorn my nightmares.
You interrupt my thoughts.
You distort my imagination.

But slowly you’re fading.
No longer parading.

I saw you on film.
The whole lot of you.
The core of my life.
The keepers of my memories.
The betrayers of my being.

I feel the tension in which you’re immersed.
I hear the silence you all sit in.
I see the ways in which you stare.
Despairingly, hidden, angrily, dumbfounded, confused, and lost.

You all have me on your mind.
Quietly looming over you in darkness.
An unrecognizable feeling, unsettling you, distressing you.
It’s me.
It’s the feeling of your betrayal. How it festers in you I need not care. You can feel it as anger towards me. Or think the delusion that this predicament is my fault.
Feel what lie comforts you.
I need not your blankets of insecurity.
I live, breathe, and feel reality.
You’re engulfed in oppression.

I feel warmth from the sun.
You deny its existence.

Let your thoughts wonder and ponder the past. The nostalgic family we were. The love, care, presents, actions, words. Look at them through her distortion, her narrative, their abuse.

Parents of grandiose nature the hindered our self for their gain.
Crumbled our life to build up their palace.

But look at us now. I’m standing outside your decrepit fort; outside the floundering family.
Breathless you still find yourselves from reading my words.
Mindless words still dribble from her lips.

I speak in truths while ya’ll live in lies.
I found my self while y’all sending spies.
I’m living my life while ya’ll’s withers and dies.

“What to talk about”

I feel okay.
Things disaster around me.
But I feel okay.
There’s a light swirling. A quiet twirling.
Chaos in the background.
But I feel okay.
Not much to ask for.
Not much to say.
I’ve triumphed obstacles throughout the day.
Here I sit, in pain of silence.
Waiting for the next wave to hit.
But I feel okay.
The edge is pulsating its will to crumble, but still nothing happens.
I feel okay.

So in this quiet moment. In this silent mind.
What do I write about?
Do I speak of good things?
That’s just not my way of thinking.
It’s not the life I’ve known.
Only terrible instances creeping around my mind.
Never silence, never peace.
Only bad, so only hurt known.
Only treachery and pain to echo through my writing.
So in this calmness, what do I say?
What conjures me so?
Nothing I can tell.
Not much I can surmise.

So what to say then?
What spills from me?
What ails me or frails me?
What grips me and rips me?
No stormy sea or begrudging me.
No frantic pacing, no heart racing.

An eire calm, a little qualm.

What’s to happen now?
What’s tomorrow look like?
How long’s this last?
How happy should I be?
What’s happy even look like?
What’s that supposed to feel like?

Fear wants to embody me now.
The teetering edge wants to give way.
The heart wants to outpace life.
Compulsion wants its power felt.

But still I am doing okay.
I am feeling okay.

These emotions are banging at the door. But I feel somewhat separated from them. A glass barrier absorbing their blows. A clear shield silencing their howls.
Yet I watch unencumbered.
I feel unimpressed.
I feel okay.

“Truly”

What do you want me to say. It’s just the same thing again. I’m struggling for some reason. I can’t figure out why. I just keep going. Move through it. Eventually notice that I’m through it before transcending again into the same feelings. Feelings which elude me from meaning. I have no recollection of the emotions they hold. No understanding of what ever I’m feeling presently. I just don’t feel well. I don’t feel right. I’m calm and panic. Frightful and encompassing. I’m well and dying. Bored and overwhelmed. Still and restless.
Two halves of an eternal hole.
Full spectrum of unrelenting convalescence.
But here I am still. Stuck ever wandering piles of ash and ruin for a city to inhabit.
Eventually I’ll be done, right!?
I’ve got to be. I can’t stand these feelings, this cycling, this torment, this unbegrudging turmoil festering my mind.

I won’t stand it another minute; yet days pass by before it’s in my rear view.
I won’t talk one more syllable of my thoughts; yet I’ve spilled out pages turned books on the matter.

Welcoming relief soothes me by the purging of these words.
Shall I conjure more as medicine to my ailment.

What more can be said again and overly exacerbated profusely.
What other words can I stack to tumble these emotions into oblivion.

I tire of this game.
I’m fearful in shame,
Hobbled and lame,
A flickering flame.

Words of discourse and of grandeur drip simultaneously.

I can’t be me outside myself.
My screaming internal dialog pleads for a chance at the helm.

But I’m too scared to let go of my hidden nature for that of the spotlight.

“Around me”

The world around me moves.
I am still but ever swirling internally.

We circle around the sun, the moon, and other planets. Swirling and twirling; Internally I am justly.

Sky piercing blue with clouds of rainbows. Beauty vastly enumerable.

Yet internally I am justly.

Ever I scour for more beauty to keep me present. More than ever I succeed in the notion.

Internally I’m still justly.

Laughing, brighter, cheery being.
Present, momentous, morphing being.
Vibrating auroras of chaos ensue.
My being is lost, justly.

Continue fighting, engulfing, winning.
Rinse and repeat.
Over and over.
Over and again.
Continue the fight.
Lose some battles.
Get back up & pick back up 10 steps back.
Rinse and repeat.
Over and over.
Over and again.
Harder to continue.
Fight the self.
Slower the movement.
Eventually another loss.
Sit back up & get back up 20 steps back.
Rinse and repeat.
Over and over.
Over and again.
Hate to continue.
Hate the self.
Motion is incalculable.
Failure is indefinite.
Wake back up & sit back up way to the back.

“Around me”

The world around me moves.
I am still but ever swirling internally.

We circle around the sun, the moon, and other planets. Swirling and twirling; Internally I am justly.

Sky piercing blue with clouds of rainbows. Beauty vastly enumerable.

Yet internally I am justly.

Ever I scour for more beauty to keep me present. More than ever I succeed in the notion.

Internally I’m still justly.

Laughing, brighter, cheery being.
Present, momentous, morphing being.
Vibrating auroras of chaos ensue.
My being is lost, justly.

Continue fighting, engulfing, winning.
Rinse and repeat.
Over and over.
Over and again.
Continue the fight.
Lose some battles.
Get back up & pick back up 10 steps back.
Rinse and repeat.
Over and over.
Over and again.
Harder to continue.
Fight the self.
Slower the movement.
Eventually another loss.
Sit back up & get back up 20 steps back.
Rinse and repeat.
Over and over.
Over and again.
Hate to continue.
Hate the self.
Motion is incalculable.
Failure is indefinite.
Wake back up & sit back up way to the back.

“Pressure”

The pressure is displacing, mind racing, heart pacing.
I’m going back and retracing, facts erasing, ego bracing.

I’m stuck in the whirlwind with no way out.
Lost in the turmoil suffocating on doubt.
Dusting off my gloves preparing to bout.
If I don’t act soon I’ll lose all my clout.

Can’t you see I’m drowning in plain sight, losing this fight, losing my might.
Why can’t I get my head above water, I’m off to the slaughter, just cannon fodder.

Trying, dying, crying, barely surviving, never been thriving.
Lost, never found.
Angry, always wound.
Silent, never sound.

What’s the point in these words in such an order?
Will it erase my history and forget this disorder?

It’s bare without life’s precious moments.
Not fair to be fragmented into components.

“Tired of the shit” (rap)

Tired of this shit not working,
Times still hurting, I’m still blurting,
The same fucking shit all day long. Nothing bringing relief, not even this song.

Tired of the same fucking story.
All guts, no glory.
The same fucking bull shit I spew,
But it sticks like glue, gum stuck to a shoe.

Bring me peace on a silver platter,
Watch from below I climb this ladder,
Jump so high I fall and splatter,
Bring me relief from all the chatter.

Cries of my children smite me,
Can’t be the father I ought be,
Forever drowning a stormy sea,
Can’t stand to be with the likes of me. I see parents and their children laughing and smiling, while I’m stuck pilling and dying. I’m crying and lying, telling myself I’ll get through it, just fuck it and screw it. I knew it, from day one, I live a prison son, just cock the gun, I am done.

But I still wake up each morning, drowning in sorrow is boring, I’m snoring.
But I must keep going, keep fighting and bleeding. Watch the fruits grow from all that I’m seeding.
But the waiting is excruciating, I need to be revolutionary.

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

“Itching”

The scratching resolves me.
Pierce my flesh and bound me solid.
Fragmented into parts unbeknownst to the host.
Feed me lies unencumbered with reality.
Kill my sense of life in a world most encompassed by your grief.
Steal the scraps I foraged to feed your own sense of worth.

I am encapsulated in the remnants of what I left with.

Beheld by the glory of thy father; I was enthralled into perjury,
Behooved into sanctuary,
Renounced in to treachery.

Pleads from my soul found me no easement from the turmoil thrust down my throat.

Encompassed more over and once again into cycles unbecoming of the wretched.

Forlorn in the struggles of minute upon minute I am panicked now.

What becomes of that which I’ve only just found in splendor?

“Pressure”

It’s building internally.
The pressure is going to blow my ear drums, explode my mind, poison my organs, and eat me whole.

I am succumbing to the weight of my burdens.
Breath labored.
Mind cycling.
Weight crushing.

I can’t stand another moment in this period of my life.

Weightless abound to the fruits of my labor.
I am tied to my trauma. The turmoil follows and drags me down.
The chains it whips are tearing my endurance.
Bleeding only hastens the cycle.
Turmoil seeps from old wounds.
New rips pour old memories long forgotten.
I am anemic now.
Lifeless body moving through momentous interactions.
Fill me back up for I can’t live like this.
Coerce me now to keep me going.
Feed me substance; keep me up right.
Hydrate my mind with dreams of an ever after.
Lie about the life I can live if I just get back up.

“Happy Thoughts”

We make our own happiness.
We can change our perspective.
We shouldn’t be so sad, so pathetic, so docile, so angry.

Turn that frown up-side-down.
Put on a happy face.
Smile and the feeling will follow suit.

Forget the immense burdens you’re stricken with.
Ignore the festering trauma still knocking on the door.
Push away the terrible feelings still swirling inside you.

Don’t look so mad.
Don’t be so upset.
Don’t act so depressed.

Life’s not that bad.
Life’s what you make of it.
Life’s sunshine and rainbows.

Exacerbate the lineage of my thoughts.
Exacerbate the images of that which was forgotten.
Exacerbate the emotions stored deep under the fray.

“Story”

How do I write a story when all I know is my own turmoil. How can I surmise up words in an order other than what pours from my soul.
I am turmoil. I am trauma. I am recovery. I am drama.

Take from me the words with which I can spill a story.

Arrange them in ways that weaken the most frozen hearts.

Rhyme and rhythm be the keys to unlocking a world once lost to them.

Feelings let free by my words.
Emotions set ablaze by my arrangement.

Let me unearth your possibilities from my own darkness.
Let me be the light which you see at the end of your tunnel.

I will spell out your shortcomings for you to correct.
I will show you the darkness which you still neglect.

I am here waiting to spell out the letters in arrangements most adorned.
I have been sitting for a chance to let you feel the depth which I was scorned.

“Left with”

This can’t be what I’m left with.

A shell of someone suffering coherently.
Parts of a whole frightened within myself.

Drowning solely on my own sense of doom.
Quiet echos reverberating my history franticly.

This can’t be what I’m left with.

Half man, half traumatized child frozen in states of terror.
Though I am ever more aware.

Aware of my low states of mind.
Aware of my habitual advantageous rituals.
Aware of my own self demise.

But what was the point if this is all I’ll be.

Am I too far gone for normalcy.
Broken in pieces I rebuilt myself whole.
Seemingly so.
But when filled with joy it leaks out all the same.
So broken I remain.

This can’t be the culmination of my efforts.

Moments of peace between waves of distress.
Reminders of the past pull me under ever deeper.
Frantic survival is my daily struggle.

How will I wake?
Angry, depressed, longing, judgmental… few emotions out weigh these.

So cycling in cycles I remain.

This can’t be what I’m left with.