My heart is black.

Devoid of feeling and life.

My soul is twisted.

Dark and morbid.

Search for solace.

And you will find horror.

Silent.

I’m setting here in silence. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh… nothing”

Thats how I express my feelings. I am feeling NOTHING.

But the fact of the matter is it’s a total lie. 

I feel everything.

I feel happy, but then I remember what happy feels like.

I experience love, or more so the lack there of. 

I feel isolated, amputated and burnt at the point of contact. Seared closed, ever flowing wound not shutting, just oozing and pusing.

Some days are bright, but then others are nothing but a nagging sense of insecurities.

Who the hell am I?

Tossed out the window a life time of values, watched it spin around the drain like a dumped bottle of Valium. 

Is this what happens when you think for yourself? You lose your friends and become confused about ones self? 

Yeah it’s cool I write. Big fucking deal, what does it do for me? Prove how i’m right? Most likely not, but is that a problem? Most certainly not. I’d rather be insane and writing out my pain then floating down the stream and letting it stay inside and steam.