Poop? Or Trash?

Writing

This Is just me being depressed again, cause it’s what I usually feel. Cause happiness is fleeting it seems. Oh well whatever.

Swallowing the whole bottle just to feel alive. Fall into a sedation where I can see it all.
I can see the past burn as I linger in the present and the future is a great distance away.

Not afraid to die, you see more when your eyes are shut.
Death is just another journey.
I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to dream. I don’t want to remain alone and sad.

Put me in a casket, bury me deep so the dark find me.

There’s no prescription for this pain, no cure, no conversation for this.

In my end is my beginning. The blue pulls away from the sky, the oceans leave the world dry and I alone sit atop a castle made of all the sand that remains.

Is anything ever enough? Is the pursuit of: goals, love, family, money, are any of these things ever enough?

It never feels like it’s enough, enough to calm the restless screaming of agony and doubt.

I can craft tales about how the tiredness is just another curable part of who I am.

I can only lie to everyone else, but i know that only works for so long.

I keep trying to justify any conclusion I come to. That I don’t enjoy happiness or satisfaction.
That I’m just alive to be alive.
I can’t justify, these dark times or the way I recklessly throw myself into things.
Maybe I’m just trying find a reason to destroy myself.

Keep getting my hopes up, even when it feels like a waste of time.

Living out my dreams is what im afraid of because once those are gone I’ll be stranded with nothing new

Even so

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