Pain to the max

The way I see it, there's two types of people...
Those who spend their lives trying to build a future...
And those who spend their lives trying to rebuild the past...
For too long I've been stuck in between...
Into the dark...
Locked in the course of destruction...
Time moves forward, and nothing changes.

Know me, broken by my master.

I wish there was a way to describe this feeling.

Agony.

The feeling of wanting to throw up without being able to.

The feeling of wanting to burst out without being able to.

The feeling of choosing warm embrace over this cold shadow.

This pain in my chest.

This feeling of death. The feeling of losing a loved one.

The feeling of being completely alone.

The motion sickness. The feeling of being on a deep slant, and your stomach churning.

Just churning.. and churning.. and the mouth tastes sour.

So sour, I figure this is what battery acid must taste like.

Or the stomach acid that's building up and will start pouring out any minute, because I haven't eaten properly in days.

Or has it been months?

The days have all begun to blend together. In and out, in and out. Day in, and day out.

Clinical depression is not a joke.

Feeling so useless, so miserable, so void of emotion. It's not a joke.

Feeling so cold, so restless. So anxious, so bothered. So desperate, so pathetic.

I faintly remember what it felt like to be happy. To feel the serotonin rushing through.

The muscles in my face to stretch and curve upwards. It used to feel good.

God, do I miss that one.

The feeling of being wanted. The feeling of being needed.

I miss that one too.

The feeling of wanting to live.

That's one perhaps more than others.

My mind.. I miss that too.

I'm so tired of missing things.

My perfect enemy.

Dead as dead can be,
my doctor tells me.
But I just can't believe him,
ever the optimistic one.
I'm sure of your ability,
to become my perfect enemy.

To forever fall from grace,
and onto black days,
as you thought you were trying to save me

You've always had such beautiful ways,
and so I'd endlessly praise,
all the ways that would slowly destroy me

To the games we are about to play,
to the shame we are about to share,
and you perhaps without even knowing,

To the death I am about to meet
and so respectfully greet,
as these pains are constantly growing

To always expecting to fail,
and for broken ships to set sail,
I wish to crawl into my mind and slowly burn out

What, with you back-stabbing Caesar,
and harbored hate you pretend is leisure,
burning out is a possibility without doubt

To playing with madness,
To anticipating sheer sadness,
I have managed to be surrounded in fear

There may not be people,
only never ending recluse,
it's all I've had since you haven't been near

One.

This can not be good for me.

I can't do it anymore.

This whole loneliness thing.

It fucking blows.

It really wrenches the soul and burns through the body with sheer determination.

It's very, very tiring.

I've grown extremely tired of it, and I don't want to do it anymore.

It's just horrible.

The viscous cycle...

The endless disappointment.

The bland dark walls inside my head.

Every idea just bounces off and disappears into the darkness.

Like a laser pointer on a dark wall.

Like a laser pointer on a dark wall.

Oh, the angst. The agony.

It begs to escape. For my soul to explode, to burst into flames.

To burn out, to disappear into smoke.

Nothing else matters, it never has.

The only thing that put some light on the situation felt like a dying candle for a while,

and then put itself out.

Out of misery, out of association with the never ending horribleness that is yours truly.

Like it always has, like it always does.

But I don't want to label everything and put it in the same box.

That was why I never wanted to do this to begin with, to do things, to begin with.

They just end up as useless classifications. Each, and every time.

Each and every time. Blue on blue, heartache on heartache. Each and every time.

It's like a small box, dying to explode. Burst into an explosion filled with paper.

Oh, the growing pains of yours truly.

Why does we always end up at square one?

No rest for the wicked.

So fucking tired of all the lies.

Why can't you just stop pretending like there was any other way.

Like you hadn't been dying to get out.

Like it hadn't been months, and the thought drove you insane.

Insane to the point where you couldn't do anything but hate.

You probably hated yourself, too. I could see it, you hated everything.

But you'll never admit it, because you're so fucking stubborn like that.

Oh, no, of course not. None of it can ever be your fault, of course not.

Never ever.

Hold your breath until you turn blue.

But instead of just coming out with it, you decided to let the cards stack up higher and higher.

If only you weren't so fucking scared, right? Until the cards all had to come crashing down,

there weren't many more choices left. Were there?

Fuck you. I grew tired too.

I grew hateful too.

I grew pissed off, too.

I didn't get on a fucking high horse though.

I didn't fucking sear through your every insecurity with a cutting knife.

And I didn't fucking ... oh fuck it.

I could have turned a blind eye to all the anguish I dished out too,

and maybe I did. But mine wasn't voluntary.

I guess it's true what they say though. Bad things happen to bad people.

No rest for the wicked.

If I was young, I'd flee this town.