There’s nothing poetic about this kind of pain.
There’s nothing romantic about this kind of darkness
crawling,
stretching about,
eating me from the inside out.
There’s no artistry in the failure to feel alive,
(just wake me up in a little while)
no need to try,
to try to simplify the problem.
It’s there, aching with every step
and reminding me that all we really are
is what we are consumed in. Nothing more.
It’s ugly,
the kind where the emptiness detaches
so when I look in the mirror I either grasp at thin air
for an ounce of self-worth that I know isn’t really there,
that or my eyes wearily analyze themselves,
wondering where it really all went
I don’t recognize myself.
People conceptualize change to be romantic
but what I’ve transformed into is again
ugly nothingness.
My surroundings are tied to me and pulling,
but I slip away never to be tied back.
Because humanity is here and I’m there,
maybe I’m brain dead or maybe I’m overly aware
it’s true what a writer once said you know,
about the mind spending its days
dying in a corner despite the blame, scratches, pleas
to be acutely conscious is an honest to goodness disease.
Don’t conceptualize me,
romanticize a struggle
or see it as some sort of beautiful dissonance
where my disconnection from humanity
puts me in some exclusive group
of tortured artists and pseudo-intellectuals.
I’m not here for long,
take me for what I am or go
I will.
It’s not real to me.
What is it within such a sickness
that is anything but a distortion of the self?
There’s nothing poetic about this kind of pain.
So why do we all bother writing?
WRITTEN BY ANONYMOUS
PHOTO BY NAIMA VOGT
