|Current mood:|| blah|
Excerpt from my paper journal..not as bad as my other entries in there..
5:13 AM No Sleep...Insomnia
There is nothing special about me. Nothing in particular that would fascinate any living being to come up to me and try to befriend me. Hell, Miah and I would have never met if it weren't that we were introduced. I met my friends either it to be out of boredom in class or if a friend introduced us. Maybe I AM anti-social. I hate it. But I am too fucking shy. Or I already know. Friend I make on my own are soon lost. Just like everything else. I cry to you journal (like a fucking pathetic emo), I write what I think. Will you too be lost from me? No. Because my grandmother bought this journal (the paper one) for me. If I were to have bought it, you would already be vanished from me. Perhaps this why I am not happy all the time. For the happyness I produce for myself soon deteriates into thin air as if it was spirit, dead. I remember it, but I cannot hold on to it.
I figured out why I am sad all the time. Why I say I am shit, that I deserve nothing. All my life I never thought I was special. I guess when you grw up with a crackwhore for a mom and a foreign engineer who doesn't wan you to live with them (unless for baby-sitting purposes), Make you think low of yourself. When the kids at school and the kids in your neighborhood hated you, picked on you, and even physically hurt you, really makes you think if you are really that bad. I guess I was convinced as a child that I should hate myself since many other kids did. If I hated myself, I should by cool, right? isn't that what the cool kids did? hate me? I mean, if my parents didn't want me, why should I? Makes me think of the other little kids who get picked on with no friends. That they too will be convinced to hate themselves since the other kids hate them. We live in such a sad world. No wonder there are people out there who are murderers. They know it too. We have cruel people out there who kill off self-esteem for their own selfish pride. It's disgusting. Truly disgusting. Makes me want to vomit out of my every orifice.
Thos fuckers are the reason I cannot appreciate ANYTHING I do. Or whatever I am. They are the reason I am anti-social. They made me fear of people. Social Anxiety. I want revenge. But I shall do nothing. I will let them live a long life. They willsoon understand once they get fatter, balder, and saggy-er. They will pay in time.
I case anyone wants to know how I write in my paper journal, I will write another excerpt..If you don't wanna read it than don't. But if you hate it or find it pathetic or whatever, just know that I agree. Sometimes I want to burn my journal hoping that my emotions burn away too...
Ehh...Don't feel like writing an entry...Some things I don't want public to read...
Here are some really crappy poems. Yay...
My life will be my sacrifice
In which death shall roll its dice
First a two, then a four
Beware of the necrophelia whore
The blood of life turns into death
Pulls the sword out of its sheath
Then slice my forlorn soul
My times spent that death has stole
Even though this may happen
Every day I try not to look saddened
These smiles of the serpents guile
Sly and untrustworth within this horrid vile
Like the souls of foul snakes
They yearn for your death
They spit on your face
When you close your eyes
You think your safe--but you're not
It's far worse when you sleep
When you dream of you thoughts
You invision a body that always rots
You awake screaming in silence
The laughter surrounds you in the dark
You look in your mirror
They see you, but they are not to be found
Eyes full of the red curses
Tattooed in your head
You want to break it, but instead
The knife, it enthralls you
It gives you the thought of what to do
The answer is near
You can feel it in your temples
In your mind and in your soul
Your heart rapes, is never whole
As everythin releases, all is good in your mind
Until your thoughts seem to be hard to find
Your blind, you cannot see
Touch your face
Feel what you have grown to be?
Knife in hand, the grip gets tighter
The laughter, getting louder, the face, getting brighter
You don't know what to do. YOUR LOST
NOTHING SEEMS TO MATTER
Louder and louder it pierces your ears
The red eyes grows upon your face
The knife rises to your head
You can't make the voice stop
It's too late--they have you
"Stop stop! Knife fucking drop!"
But it won't, it never will
Heart beat, rising, faster and faster
You take the knife, penetrate your flesh
Over and over you say, "Put me to rest!"
Darker and darker, you slowly faint
Just another victim of the suicide paint
Man I wish I was a good poet or a writer...Or good anything...that would be great..