some say it helps to write stuff.
it does actually helps but not nearly enough. my life are so small and insignificant. i’m 37 and accomplished nearly nothing, i don’t care for society things like a diploma or success but about.. i don’t really know. maybe not contemplating suicide everyday, not feeling trapped in a nightmare. small stuff i guess.. fuck me. fuck my drug use and hatred. i am the explosive kind that keeps all the hurt, the humiliation and hatred inside until something ignites and i explode or maybe implode. i am a big and gentle guy mostly but when years of pain doesn’t have anymore room inside, no outlet – all hell break loose. never violent (physically, that is) i shoot poison and eliante everyone around me, radioactive in a sense.
i’m addicted to opiates and crack. i steal and lie from my rich, capitalist employer without the smallest remorse. i have nothing in common with society so i roam in the darkness with the dealers and the pros. at first glance it would seem i don’t belong there – mild manners and a nerdish appearance among the scarred faces, gang tattooed hardies but give it a moment and you’ll see i fit right in – the old boys respect me to the astoundment of the unfamiliar.
why do i write those words? what do i want to accomplish? i don’t know.. i don’t want to die but i don’t have the skills and the know-how to live properly. i’ll try to exist a little longer, i’ll try to soldier on and face the hardships of this sad life with the tears falling inwards and this cancerous depression eating away at my ever shriveling hope.