what am i

The life in which i've come to bear in my weak hands seems to be slowly sifting through my fingers. The fabric of reality comes to a close when i plug in my headphones and let the Dubstep's bassline pump my mind from my body. I keep say unethical things so maybe people WON'T see whats truly inside my head. My inner self, my ego isn't their. I don't have confidence in virtually anything i do, but im able to effectively cover it up every time. I guess it's been working well, but i wonder how much longer i can keep up the charade, how much time will  squander away lying to myself.

I'm restless in a way. I'm tired of letting myself seek deeper into someone, but only to have my eyes blocked again. Why do i continue on in this cycle of repetition. Is this the human way that is so broadly used in many novels out there. When im long gone, will i just be another story? I can't begin to comprehend that reality of who i really am, because i hate the person im being. I truly dislike what i am becoming, i don't have the ability to just keep on going like nothings wrong.

Depth is only measured by what people see, and in myself i see a shallow puddle. Nothing special, infact i see in that puddle some dirt from people stepping in it, maybe some trash that people left in the puddle because their too lazy to throw it away. that uknown rainbow colored oil that continues to thicken and darken the puddle. I guess what that puddle is, is the person i feel like im looking at in the mirror. The truth is, i hate myself to an extent where i don't beleive i have the power or strength to do anything about anything.


Pathetic yes. Poetic no. Simply i don't care what most of you think of me right now. Because the puddle is already as vile and disgusting as it's going to get. That's what i truly, sincerely see in myself. everything i said that contradicts what i say now, was an illusion. used to keep my thoughts from myself and all of you readers.