The reason I awake each morning is only to go back to sleep at night.
Moving through motions of no importance, I step into my clothes, clean and white.
Am I at school? I’m affirmed by the bell’s chime.
Now I am home, consuming droplets of time.
A stain on my shirt shows up insistently, overshadowed by the lack of light.
It’s all the same, no more good than bad. Here or there, school or home, dirty or clean,
Either way it’s tiring and gray.
Potholes clog my life-in-progress, surrounding me, and my pace has to slow.
Above the horizon the stars sink and the sky is now lit by a faraway window
Which blinks out with the dusk’s sleepy closing.
Permanence fades, cyclical progression imposing
Only a lantern burns fighting off night, extinguished by a single blow.
The glimmer of life had long since worn off.
Mechanics replacing ambition, inconvenience prevents dreams from being realized.
My goal is to finish my work so I can sleep.
I challenge you to give me one reason to care.
Of my faults and of yours, I am fully aware.
Should I do something about it? Help you out? Help myself? No…
There’s nothing better up here than in the swampy chasms of nonexistence below.
To be perfectly frank, there’s nothing anywhere.
Nice is never real
Mean is painful to feel.
Constance is regressing
Change is depressing.
Motion is a chore but rest is a bore.
People are fake, not fully awake
Religion’s a game and traditions are the same
Family’s a joke, from whom truth never spoke!
Everything I see is unnecessary. Needless lint to occupy me.
Likewise, my unquenchable thirst for meaning is stifled
And content is diffused to match the rest of existence,
Or nonexistence,
After realizing that life’s no more than a tangle of trifles.
When no black or white or distinctions at all define your life, any change is welcome.
At least then you have something to compare it to.
What’s the difference?
It’s all the same, no more good than bad. Empty or full, alive or dead, to go or to stay.
Either way it’s tiring and gray.
I’ve fallen into a pothole where I want to take a nap.
To blanket myself in pity, like a warm mother’s lap.
But it’s hard to rest when you aren’t tired.
I could exhaust myself with work, put my energy to use,
But I’d rather sit here and watch fungus reproduce.
It’s not easy to strive when you’re not inspired.
I’d relinquish my life to the dark crowded underworld,
Where my eyes would stay shut and I could sleep forever,
Where I don’t have to know what is true and what’s not, or play along with the useless sport of survival, pretending to care, feigning interest, creating drama to bury the sharp void of uncertainty we pretend has been filled.
Regardless, I let myself function, waiting, dormant, for any change at all to use as kindling,
For I’d be a hypocrite to say life is pointless and death is not.
But hope is draining through the loose soil, and I grow weary of fruitless anticipation for what I know does not exist.
Can you blame me?
Life is neither good nor bad,
Has nothing to fight or to pursue.
But I wish it was and had, because,
Then at least I’d have something to do.
