I feel lost...like I don't know where to be placed
or how to set myself up for happiness.
Like being in a constant state of abandonment
Like my existence is nothing more than an accident
A misplaced seed that grew before it could be stopped
A racing piece of sperm that couldn't be blocked
I exist, but I really might as well not.

There had to be better seeds.

Like I wonder what it is I am even for
I come in I go out through all these open/closed doors
but there's no lasting impression
no memory implanted
I don't know what career life or family
I've ever even wanted

What I'm good at what I'm not,
It's all a calculated guess
If I could run somewhere with no responsibilities
and get everything off my chest
but I can't because money and family keep you trapped
Always there to make certain your flesh is in tact
for them both to rip and tear away piece by piece
Limb by Limb.
Till I'm so bare you can see through skin.

I can't even rhyme good and my vocabulary fucking blows
I could look up synonym after synonym to pretend there's more that I know
But I'm too goddamn lazy and could care fucking less
Instead of maturing as I grow I regress and regress
Until I have the mentality of a 8 year old
who wants nothing more than food and laughter
and someplace to consider home

The boredom eats away my cells like a virus
a needle just being slowly and slowly pressed into my iris
driving me slowly but surely insane
So I've done all those drugs to dim my brain
So that maybe it wouldn't do all this thinking
Numb yourself till you don't care who you are or where you're going
Until all you know is you feel okay
because you don't feel anything at all

What do you do when you cant figure out
who you are or what you wanna do
when you replay in your head "It's A Wonderful Life"
and question if whether or not when you died, anyone would miss you

Where you look out the window while you're at work
and see yourself swinging from some rope
back and forth no feelings or cares
no what should I do today
no what should I wear...
It seems selfish, but selfish goes hand in hand with reality
and if there's one single thing I'm good at it's not pretending everything's all pretty and sturdy

Even as I write this I know it's garbage
My life isn't full it's all empty and damaged.
Really, though, what the fuck am I for?
Nothing but a breeze opening and closing all these doors
nothing but a swing swinging back and forth
and back and forth and back and forth...
until gravity doesn't want to try anymore

And eventually we all still.