I will warn you that I'm feeling fucking poetic so I can't promise reading comprehension will get you through this chappy boy. I find a sad humour in the inability to do things I want to do. To me Art is forcing people to think. Skill shouldn't matter in Art. if you wish to skip a ramble find the next line that looks like that one below me \/
----------------------------------------
A half mad self sabotage for the sake of nothing. Meaningless destruction of own ability.
Knowledge for the source of pain yet in spite of reality I fall for my own folly.
A litany of curses towards existence. The desire to burn it all to the ground. It is fortunate reality isn't as flammable as I often wish it to be. If I had a button to exterminate existence I'd press it in a heart beat. My only regret being not having time to regret my action.
I wish reminding myself of existences beautiful side would bring back the joy or fight away the anger, yet only bring me a melancholy of pain.
The things I haven't yet experienced are the bait that keep me trapped within the seemingly meaningless void of the mundane.
And then the anger returns again, a disappointment at everything and anything. Only the vague hope of the substance being molded being a tasty enough morsel for someone else to enjoy, or inflict upon themselves.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
A blank void, the hope that it isn't the only thing left, and then the sadness returns, at the fact that it isn't getting easier.
A probable inability to detect the smaller feelings dying within. A wish at decoding the self, catching whatever creates the misery that seemingly at random wants to crush me between stars.
A ponderance of misfortune versus the causality of own action.
A spite at the thought of normality, yet in normality i feel like living and live feeling.
The thought of escape towards the noise of others. A covering of cowering in cowardice. A righteous cowardice despite the claims, what is fairer than fearing the pain.
A sadness from own cowardice. A fear of failure, failure to escape the pain caused by whichever demon haunts me.
A half gladness once more for the decision to at least mold something out of the pain, no matter how meaningless to the other, to the many. It was done for the self so those many are just a side thought, still a funny thought, a poor soul parading upon the puny pondering. disgusted by the lack of comprehensibility. hopefully ever so slightly interested by the wandering wondering.
A gladness for the disgust of the other.
For what would I be if robbed the existence, example full of bother.
A joyful stupidity in rhyme. A lack of care for the crime.
A care for the substance produced yet an anger at the difficulty.
A wish to give up on the journey of mapping a sequence of thought. A fuck you at form.
A pause.
A wish.
A melancholy.
I'm. Tired. So very tired today. Hopefully tomorrow will be a less tiring experience. Hopefully I remember to eat well.
----------------------------------------
That's apparently what happens When I just list what I feel and mix a little humor in. Thanks for reading I guess. Also it seems this one is shorter than the ones before. I'm going to sleep now.