Sometimes, I leave the house at dark,
and I just have to stand there,
Peering into the night,
And I have to keep telling myself that I have things to do,
That I can’t just keep walking,
Keep walking into the sun-begotten land,
That when I eventually rot and die,
I will finally have something beautiful bloom from my decaying corpse.
And as my car rumbles down the road,
And the only light that breaks through the shroud of darkness is the dim glow of the houses that dot the path,
I just have to stare and stare out the window at nothing,
Wishing to be a part of it,
Wanting it to be my home.
So I try to ignore how the bile creeps up my throat,
Because I’m not supposed to want that.
But I still do.
And if the only contentment I can have is pleading into the silence for absence,
Then that’s what I will do until I’m empty.
I have always found solace in Melancholy,
Sure, I wore the ill-fitting suit of happiness,
But it restricted me,
It choked out laughter,
And the people laughed along with me,
I don’t know if somehow they didn’t notice the bursting seams,
Or they just didn’t care as long as I wore it.
Guess they figured the snug fit was what I needed,
That I needed to be suffocated by contentment,
See I much preferred the lazy misery,
And that didn’t fit me quite right either,
But I’ll grow into it,
Or maybe I won’t,
Maybe with every single pound I gain or centimeter I grow,
so will it,
Maybe I will be perpetually drowning in soft sorrow.
That doesn’t sound so bad though,
At least I won’t be compressed by serotonin.
Isn’t it human?
Having to just get up every day,
And throughout the day having to promise a million times over,
to stay alive?
And isn’t it human?
To lay in the darkness every night,
Repeating your mantra till your eyes grow heavy,
Telling yourself that you can do it again tomorrow,
Isn’t it human?
Knowing you have to live despite never wanting to,