writing my soul on words that make me cry by eyeing over them twice.
finding a piece of music to cry and feel the comfort of discomfort.
to hug my pain until it cuts through my skin, a jacket of blades.
i'm tired and exhausted, why the fuck does it feel harder to live
pushing and fighting for a flag that i barely recognise anymore,
stranded on an island with a blurry line between sea and sky
some hands stretch out to help, but noone is willing to step in.
alone, tired, exhausted, unmotivated, dysfunctional, tired, pained
what the fuck do i do when i can't vouch for my identity or sanity?
a vagabond in the streets of my own ideals, at a crossroads with myself
feeling lost and never found, aching lonely but never loud
what's even the purpose of writing? only to let dust settle,
to push senselessly through another week, year, month or unit of time
feeding my words into the modern woodchipper, plastic words of hope