The point of life…

Is death.

So why can’t I be done with it now instead of being me?  The hollow thing I am is that of a failure.  Loneliness has been my sole companion for as long as I can remember.

There’s no future for me, not even entering the rat race for the green god known as money because I am incapable of working, let alone having the enjoyment and success precious few people ever experience.

And I sit here alone piddling away the days because I can do nothing better.

Why was I not put down in the womb?  Why did the car stop before it hit me?

Why can no one abide by my voiceless screaming?

Wake up, take medication to numb the feelings I know remain, waste away the day trying to make something of this meager existence.  Doing it alone, unable to connect with another human being.  Being branded as abnormal by whatever fake idol runs this society.

So die.  Let me.  It is the only thing I ever ask for.  You can’t quite put that on an Xmas list.  Tell everyone you should have the same kindness they show lame dogs…

Life is a futile thing for those that have been made hollow, devoid of all the innards that allegedly define the human experience.  I do not belong on this planet and I cannot abide by loneliness anymore.