Collective Insanity

We are going insane, one at a time.

Sent here to stay, for a moment—

Held at bay, from taking our life,

Until they send us on our way

And collect their pay.

 

We are going insane—

Each day, one breaks—

Is restrained—

Is in pain.

 

We needed a break, a safe place to stay,

Now we are broken, driven insane.

To Cease Living

Do I really want to cease living,

As the thoughts tell me each day?

Do I even think I want to?

Or is this all just a delusion,

As I fear?

Not Enough, Life a Limbo

This pain is not enough—I barely feel it.

No pain is too much—-I’m numb.

Mental pain I feel too well,

Pain of my body I cannot tell.

Red lines crisscross my skin—they fade too quickly.

Pain I self-inflict, I barely feel it.

I need something—I don’t know what.

I need more—yet I’m held back.

By what little reason is left in my crazed mind.

I must feel more—I don’t know why.

I want to bleed—the impulse grows.

 

I dream of a life—somehow so real.

I dream of a girl—I feel like I’m her.

I dream of her life—missing it when I wake up.

I yearn for that dream—painful though it is.

I yearn to be her, to join her.

I need to do something, I am not living.

I feel so dead, each day I’m hoping.

Hoping for this life, this life I dream of.

Each day I move through, stuck, helpless.

Each day I cry out, yet no one can hear.

Each day I want out, yet that goal is so far.

Each day I wish, wish to be her.

 

I spend so much time dreaming,

I forget I am here.

The only reminder,

Is the suffering I am numb to,

The struggle I don’t go through,

At least to my warped mind.

 

Am I really alive? What does it even mean?

Why am I never,

Satisfied with life?

Why do I always,

Seem to be yearning,

Dreaming of something,

Thinking of nothing—everything, something,

Wondering what I am,

Wishing I were somebody,

Somebody real.

 

Instead I am no one,

Nothing, not even boredom, no longer.

Everything, no names though.

I just want to be someone,

Feel something of note,

Something I can name,

Have a life not a limbo.

 

I just want something, a life.

I just want to feel alive.

I just want to smile,

I just want to try—not give up or move along.

I want to feel at home,

I want to be in sync with time,

I want to explore life,

I want to know.

 

I’m so confused…

I feel like a bomb with no fuse,

A life with no use—days, weeks, years wasted.

No method to live though,

No wonder I need help.

 

I’m so confused,

I don’t know what I want,

Can’t tell what I thought,

Don’t know how I’ve persisted,

For so many days.

How’ve I existed?

Living life in a haze.

I want to feel pain,

To distract from my other pain.

The burden of my mind,

The distress and unknowing,

The depression and yearning,

The cycle of hurting,

The doubt upon doubt,

“I’m not depressed,”

The truth so alluring,

What’s anything mean?

I can’t keep living,

Just lying and wishing,

Not trying and falling,

Dying and crying.

 

Sighing:

No one to listen, no one to help,

No help in sight, no problem I even know of.

What is life?

If it’s this, it’s not.

 

I can’t think of myself,

I can’t imagine me,

I can’t know what I think,

I am not living.

I may be breathing,

But my body is dead.

I may be thinking,

But it’s all in my head.

I’m only sleeping,

To dream of her again,

To get a break from the dread,

To feel a bit less like lead,

To do what they said.

 

Life is just hell, what do I do?

Everyone’s so calm, do they not feel it?

Why is this real, if it even is.

Why don’t I feel, why do I miss?

Why can’t I live, I need to detach.

I stop feeling, when it’s too much.

I stop living, until it is through.

I retreat to my mind, I relinquish my life.

I want night, alone with my thoughts,

Yet I also want day, distraction from my mind.

 

Longing for a Childhood

I want to be a child again, if I ever was.

I want the childhood I never had,

I want to be curious, learning.

All that I missed out on, what others perhaps take for granted.

I want to be a child, to experience life, innocent.

I want a childhood, not these few sickening memories.

I want to have lived, to have had choice, to have had connection.

I would even take hurt, more than I had, as long as it’s different.

I want to ride the bus each day, not stare at a screen in isolation.

I want to do what I want, without fear.

I want to fail, and learn.

I want to learn, on my own, through practice, through experience.

In truth, it feels I’ve been alive mere months, if at all.

I never had a chance to be a child, to any extent that matters.

Imprisoned, deprived—to my mind, my fault.

I never had an opinion, or never one that overcame the fear of expression—an unfortunate habit

If only I had lived, but I have to make do now.

I want to relive, as a child.

 

I know nothing, question everything, with this corruption.

 

Robotic No-Life

I am a machine, doing tasks, chores, what I am told.

Or I am a loser, procrastination and doomscrolling.

I do not speak, just nod and listen.

Or I advocate, get faulted, somehow.

Sometimes I don’t know what I am, but a machine with the heart of a girl,

A heart hidden so deep,

In a dark corner of her mind,

Forgotten but to her subconscious.

I am a machine that yearns to live.

 

Just… Let Me Have This, Please?

I can’t have anything, can I?

Not a childhood, not friends.

Nothing lasting, no one worth knowing.

And perhaps worst of all?

No knowledge, no skill.

Not knowing it’s okay, to want things.

To have things, to have an opinion,

To have a voice, to use it.

And now this, taken away from me.

It doesn’t matter to me that it’s “for the better,”

That I can see the harm.

I just want something.

 

No One, But Me

No one to talk to about this, I can’t.

No one, no one but me.

And even the thought of that gives me confusion and yearning, all that I missed out on.

Daydreaming and coping, living and breathing.

I was not a human, but a machine.

And now, trust fails, I distance.

No one to talk to, no one to listen.

No one, and it’s killing me.

 

Slipping and Falling

I feel myself slipping,

Falling towards failure,

Showing signs of disgrace,

Doing what I told myself I’d never.

Need to Suffer

I need to suffer,

To “get better.”

I need pain,

Suffering, hardship,

I don’t need my mind,

Just pain.

I don’t need a body,

Except for pain.

Just pain,

Just suffering.

 

Want to Suffer

I want to suffer,

To not feel,

Yet feel at once.

I want to be cared for,

I want to be seen.

I want to suffer,

I want them to see,

I want them to care.

I want to scream,

I want them to hear.

I want to grow near,

Nearer the edge,

I want to fear,

I want near,

Death.

Yet I want care,

I want revival,

I want cure,

I want help,

I want saving,

I want safety,

I want help,

I want the cure,

I want the help,

I want the safety,

I want the help,

I want the cure,

I want to be saved,

I want to be helped,

I want to listen,

Listen to the urges,

I want to hurt so badly,

I want to be in so much pain,

That I can’t breathe,

So much pain,

So much blood,

That I pass out.

I want that each day.

 

Maybe I should…

To see what it’s like,

To give in, let go,

To… seek help,

To feel, to hurt.

 

Help helphelp ME.

 

OF not thaet MIND

It has changed—my thoughts.

I look back—at the words.

I am disturbed—why did I say that?

Did I mean it?

 

“Art is a Question”

The truly deep thinking occurs when asked, when prompted.

When deep, when questioned.

Profound, or even not.

All is art,

Art is question.

Answer is art,

Art: another question.

Art from art,

Questions from questions,

Thinking,

Evoked.

 

Meaning, is there?

Meaning, meant?

Meaning, fabriqued?

Meaning, none, all, any.

 

ICKSICKSICKSICKS

Sick, sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sic

Sic

Sick

I am sick

I feel sick

My body is sick

My body, sick

Me are sick.

I, sick.

Sic.

I feel sick.

I need

The cure

I need the cure

I need it

I need the cure

I don’t want to be sick

I’m not sick,

I’m not sick, not sick, not sick, not sick

I’m healthy, I’m fine I’m well I’m good I’m doing well

Not sick not sick not sick, I’m not sick…

 

Der Ang

I don’t… don’t…

It’s… it’s not… different… I…

Like… it’s… it…

No no no no

Non non non non…

 

She shakes the head of hers

Nonononono… please… no no… I… I didn’t… no…

Eyes of hers she squeezes

I didn’t… it… no… I wasn’t! no… no I don’t I can’t, I can’t!

Runs, she.

Non… It can’t… can’t… be…

Away, far, nowhere.

Wha… what… why did… why?

Forgetting, attempting.

I… couldn’t… I couldn’t… I couldn’t… I…

Nowhere nothing known, to her.

My… my… mymymymymy… mind… my mind… my… what…

She stops in the street

Where… why… what am I…?

Here, why? She thinks.

I don’t… remember. I don’t think.

Tears, why? She thinks.

I don’t… feel good…

See it, she does not.

 

友達

“Why is this so hard…”

You’ve done it before, right?

“I know I know… but it’s… it’s still… each time is…”

Hey, take a break. It’s alright, you can rest.

“Th-thanks right yeah”

 

* * *

 

It won’t help.

“I- I have to I can’t keep… I need to”

But you… you know wh—

“I know! I don’t… I need to though, it…”

“Sorry… I shouldn’t have snapped you’re my… my…”

I care about you, I want you to live, to truly live. That’s all I want.

 

Babble

Executed,

Eggs ek you ted.

Eggs, Ted?

Eggistential crycis.

Existential Psychos.

Extended Warranty.

 

You exists,

You are everywhere,

You are not where,

Not when,

You are in there.

You exist,

In the Library…

 

BU

I wanna be smart like you,

I wanna talk like you,

I wanna be able to speak,

I wanna live through the week,

I wanna be of some use,

I wanna be you.

 

Mind Broke

Strained, cracked.

Too late, too much pressure.

So much pressure…

Break, snap.

Too late, no going back.

No return, no help.

Might as well embrace it.

 

Pain Insane Blood Rain

Let it rain,

Let it rain blood.

I’m already insane,

In so much pain.

What’s some more?

I already suffer,

I already struggle,

I can barely think sometimes,

I’ve already broke,

I get sick sometimes,

I can’t handle myself,

So why stop?

Why seek help, why get better?

What’s the problem, what needs “healing”?

What is even wrong with me, I cannot tell.

I might as well continue,

Suffer some more,

It feels good.

 

And then I get sick,

And then I realize,

I wake up briefly, horror strikes,

I cannot live, so I die again,

Sleep again, fall further.

 

No use stopping,

No need for help,

Until I’m falling.

 

[Added these two, forgot to put them here initially]

Hiding

Eyes always down, hiding behind too-long bangs.

Brain on loan, too exhausted from its tasks.

Arms swinging at my side, unnatural but they won’t comply.

Sitting on a plastic chair, leaning forward, obscured by fears.

What am I afraid of, being seen? Why am I hiding, facing a screen?

I grow so tired, beginning each day unable to think, to speak,

Don’t want to eat, don’t want to be.

Please let me leave, just let me be.

Let me exist, if just to persist.

Help me escape whatever this is.

 

Unafraid… Worried?

The urge is there, do I listen?

What once I feared, is just my prison.

What once I… dismissed, is growing, it has risen.

I want to comply, it does not distress me.

It surfaces… worry; what am I doing?

Here, with life, at all?

Why did I choose this path, and should I turn back?

Before I regret it, before I’m not around to.

Depression Cure

I wanted a depression cure;

I wanted to feel.

Whether I felt, I’m not sure,

But deep down I wanted to heal.

 

I needed to escape,

Into reality.

Yet too much debate,

From my fragility.

 

That’s why I rushed,

Which led to doubts.

Yet I felt crushed,

Unsure of this route.

 

I have wanted a depression cure,

For so, so long.

A cure to my mind,

A fix, a solution,

Mending the broken.

 

I seek an end to the hardship,

An answer to the suffering,

A source I cannot identify,

A reason for my life,

There must be one, right?

 

I am living, not thriving,

It’s hard to keep trying,

Failing and dying,

Prying my mind,

Must be something to find,

 

Under the layers,

Covered by dust,

Tangled in webs,

A forgotten chest,

Remember, I must,

Outrunning the flayers.

 

Sort through this mess,

So much confusion,

Nothing makes sense,

I’m in a delusion,

Self-forced into seclusion.

 

I need a cure,

A cure for life.

I don’t need more tears,

I need life.

Yet what do I fear?

The light,

The cure.

 

Contradictions,

My mind is unlisted,

I have no access,

No fact-checks.

 

What am I writing?

Nothing delighting.

Yet is it all true?

And who are “you”?

 

I might want to die,

I know I can’t fly,

I constantly cry,

Not always knowing why.

 

What Do I Do?

Do I dare try,

Try to survive,

Survive this madness,

Madness of mine,

Mine I created,

Created in madness,

Madness of the mind,

Mind of an onion,

Onion too tangled,

Tangled like her,

Her who is me,

Me, the confused,

Confused, words reused,

Reused news,

News of myself,

Myself I don’t know,

Know not myself,

Myself, unknown,

Unknown, what is,

Is it what is,

Is it all real,

Real, meaning what,

What is reality,

Reality is fake,

Fake is my mind,

Mine controlled,

Controlled by me,

Me through others,

Others I see,

See them too much,

Much dismay,

Dismay of mine,

Mine not alone,

Alone am I,

I don’t know,

Know I do not,

Not of well mind,

Mind unraveled,

Unraveled, still tangled,

Tangled, unorderly,

Unorderly, unkempt,

Unkempt, uncared for,

For I do not care,

Care not for me,

Me, that is who,

Who are you,

You, a figment,

Figment, a product,

Product of insanity,

Insanity, prevailing,

Prevailing, unchecked,

Unchecked, let grown,

Grown without bounds,

Bounds, mind-shackles,

Mind-shackles, lifelong,

Lifelong suffering,

Suffering endured,

Endured alone,

Alone, self-induced,

Self-induced, mental torture,

Torture, what does it mean,

Mean what I say,

Say what I think,

Think, not mine,

Mine I don’t know,

Know of it,

It corrupts the words,

Words I speak,

Speak I do oddly,

Oddly I repeat,

Repeat what I say,

Say what I see,

See not the answer,

Answer elusive,

Elusive is the cure,

Cure for what?

 

Answer Sought;Questions Wrought

What I seek is an answer,

To life.

I need to know.

 

What am I?

Who am I?
 

Who is “me”?

 

Why am I like this?

What is “this”?

 

How do I proceed?

What do I need?

 

How do I live,

When I feel like I’m not?

 

What do I feel like?

What do I think?

 

What of my mind is true,

And what is of you?

 

Do I stop, continue?

Alter, seek help?

 

Is this the right path?

Is there one?

 

Is the process of learning,

Just suffering and yearning?

 

What is my mind?

What is my past?

 

What is my life?

What is left?

 

What is right?

What is true?

 

Who is I?

Is I just you?

 

Do I suffer?

Or is it not real?

 

Why do I wonder,

What I truly feel?

 

Am I happy?

Am I sad?

 

Am I depressed?

Am I glad?

 

Am I erasing,

All my progress?

 

Am I ignoring,

What must be obvious?

 

Or do I really know,

What my mind is?

 

Am I the only one who can tell,

What the inside is like in the end?

 

What am I?

I don’t feel human.

 

Who am I?

What is my purpose.

 

What am I doing?

I should do something.

 

What do I want?

Is it different from what I think?

 

Do I care,

About my wellbeing?

 

Do I dare,

Question what I’m seeing?

 

Do I listen,

To what they are speaking?

 

How do I communicate?

How do I make them understand?

 

Through speech,

Through each,

 

Word I trip over,

Word I speak.

 

How I do say,

What I don’t know?

 

How do I speak,

When I do not think?

 

How do I think,

When I fear I’m wrong?

 

How do I handle,

Constant shame?

 

How do I learn,

Stop the self-blame?

 

Can I forget,

What I do not remember?

 

Can I remember,

What I have forgotten?

 

Can I start over,

Without all these issues?

 

Can I understand,

What’s holding me captive?

 

Can I just know,

What’s true and what’s not?

 

Can I just think,

Without recursively doubting?

 

Can I just breathe?

Live in the moment?

 

Can I just live?

Can I just live?

 

Why do I Drift,

Forming a Rift?

 

Decline,

Withdraw?

 

Leave,

Self-isolate?

 

Unlove,

Grow wary?

 

Seek suffering?

Solace with solitude?

 

Lean toward the edge,

Running from the sun?

 

Stay in the shadows,

Away from the “fun”?

 

Away from the humans,

Lonely and dun?

 

Talking to My Mind

Just try it, why not?

What’s the harm, it’ll be fun!

No it won’t, no I can’t.

Yes you can, here, it’s easy!

No I can’t I won’t…

If I do then…

Why aren’t you saying it?

Why aren’t you?

Oh, don’t shift the blame to me.

Haha, you, me, what’s the difference.

 

Confused in the Mind

I am… confused.

I don’t know what to think, anymore.

I don’t know where to go, anymore.

Maybe I’m just hiding

—Scapegoating—

When really there is nothing wrong,

And everything is fine,

And I am to blame—or not, either way—

And nothing is right,

And everything is wrong.

Everything that I think, that is.

But can that be true?

And is anything?

 

Help, Undeserved?

Do I deserve to claim depression?

Is this just a feign?

 

Do I deserve to claim sadness?

 

Can I say I’m struggling,

Do I deserve to say I’m suffering?

 

Am I allowed to get help,

 

And do I deserve it?

 

If I can’t find the source?

 

Withdrawing?

Am I driving them away?

“Independence” or withdrawal?

“Freedom” or solitude?

Am I making the right choice?

When they say my life is “perfect”?

In Sane.?

In sane, no time.

No time, at all.

Words slipping on my lips,

Quick as a fool,

Falling for the illusion,

The illusions around us.

 

Slowed down,

 

Calmed, breathing.

A i se o.

My heart,

My heart is regular now.

—no, it’s not faked, not intentional—

—or is it?

 

What is this poem about?

 

What am I trying to do?

What am I doing now?

Why?

 

Why, the question of all.

 

The question that makes you stop,

Makes you think.

Makes you question.

The counter to impulse,

Lifting you from the daze of action,

The daze continuing like Michael,

The flow’s… alter ego.

 

Young, childhood.

 

That time of melancholy,

Brief flashes of memories,

All sad.

All sad…

Childhood, sick, nauseating.

 

Not effortless?

 

Am I real then?

Obsessive-just?

 

No context provided,

 

For these… letters and symbols.

All letters are symbols,

Pixels on a Screen.

 

Title Case, whatfor art thou?

 

How? Howfor? How? How? Which? Which words?

 

Z

 

Z…

1943

Trying to be deep,

Failing like that leaf,

To shelter the mind,

From the sun?

 

Connections, connections, diagrams and lines.

 

Words and pages of meaning,

Numbers, operations.

Time spent

 

…—...---...

 

Time spent.

Deterioration,

—The representation of.

Jungle

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, self-death, unaleavened… too much to unpack so much data.

 

Ugh ugh ugh can you just ugh ugh ugh ugh uhgh ughu ghg ughghghuggh let me leave this this this mind this place earth planet life thing let me exit let me go down the stairs, walking down the six feet into the basement down the steep concrete steps—or cement—orcement orcement…celery…

 

Kill kill me kill me me me me me me

Absolve me from this shame this this overwhelming always there always comes back always me always me my fault maybe always… ?

What I hate is myself my body it. It it it it it it it it it kill it it kill it kill it kill it kill it please.

Destroy it destroy it incinerate evisceratedly

??????????

Wrong weird misuse misuse abuse-d…????????????????????????

How what manic can’t

No no no no no getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout they’re watching not them just them just them it’s day it’s day the sun is out I can’t Ican’t icnancajtntnntnnt

Keyboardsmash is weird indeed what it is is nonsense, right James?????

Indeed Indeed fake fake fake fake fake scripted, I am a clickbait video I am a scripted masterpiece. My my mind so sweet but so… so psych! Oh…

Crack crack little pop little itty little repetition while waiting to think of words is what im doing and it’s honestly a little stupid is it not?

Saved, autosaved; - not lost. Not… airplane? Child. Twisted metal, not me. Didn’t happen, will tomorrow (IS WHAT I FEAR).

No I didn’t just _.

Are thoughts…

Thoughts, once you think them, then catch up to write them, are just out of time and no longer relevant, it feels inauthentic to write them then, they are expired, already thought, becoming cringe and fake and invalid and expired.

Like you are repeating yourself, but it is like when you are repeating someone else, you can hear the echo but not the source, and you feel “disconnected” from it, it is not in the moment it is an echo.

An echo of the brain, the thoughts, the thing the thing!

The thing, it ,everywhere omnipresent uncorrected comma just one one one one one one one eoneo eon eons are hyperboles.

Aeon? Greecek is weird, but not really, just English/Latin/Roman is weird and gross, overused and sickening and plain, so boring so refined.

Why?

Why did history have to happen?

Why could it…

What could it have been instead, though?

I don’t know,

So is it worth thinking,

Hard though it is,

—not “may be”, “is.”

 

Stomach, a verb and a word (noun). A weird thing, a weird..

 

A pig exploded, leaving behind residue of The Dream.

That Ugly Dream, That Sickening Dream, omnipresent ubiquitous everywhere.

It is mentioned it is gross it is fake it is fake like me like them like every thing.

Every thing is everything, every where is everywhere, all onces were nows.

All onces were once nows, now they are speeding in the other lane.

Moments are cars on a road—not a highway, a road.

Moments are ahead, not always seeable, sometimes clear, to you or them maybe, maybe not, but always ahead.

Sometimes moments leave like this extended bridged metaphor.

Point being moments are cars, they come at you, and for a brief moment you are one with the moment, or not ever.

And then it’s gone, “in your/the rearview mirror,” fading from sight but you can’t look back only forward lest you die.

 

Death, forever it is. It is forever, death.

 

Missed a word mistake misswitch.

Not Miss Witch, no no not her, She.

Her she, so sweet.

Her she, but do I like?

 

Kill me, because I can’t say otherwise.

 

Kill me, because I am wasting chrono-dust.

Kill me, for I misword on purpose, perhaps, potentially, and particularly

Why.. do I mix “them” up? Them Them Them Them Them Them Them Them Them Them Them Them Them The

Mix

Tape

Old again, here

Yes here, old….?

Sunshine she’s in, soaking?

Not summer, not yet, not yet, not yet.

No counting does this.

Because it is pointless garbage, utter meaningless nothing spewed from my malfunctioning—either way—mind of onions.

Nothingness, eternally, though not alive to know it.

That is death, in essence, without essence, intangible.

Death is when it stops, when the computer turns off.

An old one, mind you.

It blanks, nothing keeping it going.

No retrieval, just gone!

Just gone, you will be one day,

Unless we falsely avoid falsely datesetting.

Falsely falsey ferris

Ferris wheeler.

Dumbit,

Dahngiht

.

Ungh?

STOP

STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOPS TOSTPSOTSOTPPSOTPOSPTPSPTSOPTPOSPTPPSOTOTSPTPSPOTOTPSPTPSTOPOTP

noNOnoNoNOonOnooNnNOONONONONNOONNONOONONNOOOOONONNO

Noone

No one

Noon.

Noon!

STOPPPPPP

Noon.

NooN

nOOn

nOnOn

OnO

Non-non

A non-non

No, not that get away.

Deteriorating, again,

Potentially purposefully?

Subconsciously absorbed?

Weirdly-wired, wasn’t wanton?

… (change of thought_)]fdajfjidjfdkjgjdksjgdhg

Wht athheahthw

How to decscirbe

Calm down calm down calm down calm down relax stop stop stop stop think no dont’t think..

How… to.. DESCRibe..

ALSIFDJ

Alsified?

Also… ified

Yes of coiurse.

Of couirse.

Of cirse.

How…

Thinking thinking and also thinking about thinking.

Thinking about thinking.

Thoughts about thinking about thinking.

Feelings about thoughts about thinking about thinking.

Thoughts about feelings about thoughts about thinking about thinking.

Nothing known, spiralling.

Too many “which may be”

Too many disclaimers and prefaces, which is why my mind brain is an onion.

And it makes me cry.

“I think it may be underscore, but that also may be because underscore, but also underscore, though underscore and underscore, and it could instead just be underscore…”

And so on without stopping to parse and go through the recursion chain.

Every thought has more brought.

Every feelings has a thought of doubt.

Every questioning is questioned, and that questioning of said questioning is then questioned, and it repeats in a loop. A futile loop.

 

Who are you?

 

Who are you?

It/she asks.

 

I am still trying to answer that, voice in my ears.

 

 

…

 

 

Not knowing—

 

Too much…

Where

Why did?

Why thought

Too streams like the diagram of the mind that fidget that can’t move can’t think that that streams overlap too much to write can’t express would just be a scream in voiced.

Sentence finished calming down maybe too still muscles muscles tense and un…

Untensed.

Like words perhaps but when you can’t stop to think of the meaning and you (I) write it instead.

I love haha’ng and keyboardspamming because it expressed my mind in that moment it is that like that.

Speeding no slowing can’t, like Alex.

Like _, like _, etc. now I know now I know what I already 

 

Burden of Knowing

There is a burden to knowing,

A restriction a barrier a self-placed

It restricts me

I can’t move or think or say or write or express

I can’t when I could,

Now I can’t because I know.

And if I know, it’s not real, and if it’s not real I can’t.

 

Words, What Are They?

What are words, anyway?

Just weird little groups of smaller things that we use automatically, sometimes, to express nothing.

It does it well ,it does.

Nothing from somethings.

A weird little popup saying you need to clean

Not saying you don’t, just not saying.

Close

Open

Not close again, too unnatural.

Unnatural, sometimes unflowing, with hes’t’ns (haha, stupid) and The Like.

Why do those old texts do that, you think?

What are you thinking I meant, hm?

Oh, “you”

Thanks for reminding me, me.

Me.

“Me”

Quotes, no quotes, no meaning there (here).

No, nou

Nou nou nou noun.

Delayed thing

Delayed connection response.

“Delayer is the mind,” is easy to say with no thought just because it “sOUNDS DEEp”

Symmetrically pleasing, purposeful asymmetry.

 

What the underscore.

 

No question marks no exclamation marks, why am I so against them except for pondering, because they make me stupid they make me an embarrassment of cringe.

Do I actually, am I actu

Yes the thought the thought

No

The thought

The thought from before

The expressing the delayed the expressing after the thought is because…

Because yes because edit because if I have time to think about it after I say it,

And then I say it anyway—no edits—then,

Is it a thought?

 

Lonely in a Different Way

I feel lonely in a different way,

No voices no ones.

But terrified am I last night,

Terrified of the thought and the thoughts.

Terrified.

Utter.

Ly.

So why,

Why am I,

Still lonely,

In this way?

 

See, ponder.

 

 

Why am I lonely for what

 

Why am I missing what I don’t have,

Missing what I don’t have what I don’t know if I knew, if I thought/had.

 

And why?

 

Man, You Fractured My Lives.

Am I manufacturing my inner life?

Or is this feeling real?

This this feeling,

The feeling I’ve read about,

The feeling I Hazard To Express.

The FEELING THOUGHT.

It is… that…

I feel,

I cycle and listen to the music and say nothing and sit and sit and sit and sit…

The feeling is True, Man.

(So you GET IT.)

In-or-out, age-old.

(So you GET IT too.)

Or maybe you don’t GET anything.

Will I?

GET IT?

Oh, pun.

Or will I just PUT it out there, POSTing it as per the usual.

 

The Feeling is…

 

The Reality Feeling

Every atom,

Imagined.

Everything,

Altered perception,

Not how it is,

Just a wireframe underneath,

Touch,

Physics.

Interact,

Extraordinary, weird,

What do they see?

The thought I experiment in my head,

The thought when alone or falling to my sleep.

Stupid Stew, art is stew?

Brains,

Braaaaiiinnnnnsssssss

Brains, brain.

Brian’s brain,

Branes,

Here We Go Again.

Insert hyphens, please.

Or replace.

Either or ither.

AHF

AJFAFJD

SAKJIQWIIWUW

ANCNCNNCNCNCNNCNCNNC

Monkeys, infinite.

 

I Don’t… I don’t… know…?

I don’t…

I don’t know,

I don’t.

I can’t.

I can’t think,

Can’t know can’t speak,

Can’t decide,

Can’t opinionate,

Can’t hold,

Can’t differ,

Can’t change,

I can’t think,

I can’t do…

 

Plummet

I fear for my future,

Suddenly.

I fear I will plummet,

Soon.

I worry I will fail,

Drop.

Waver, then stall.

Degrade, expire.

 

I’ve been holding on so long,

 

My fingers grow tired,

The glass cuts in,

My fingers numb,

Can I hold on?

Can I get up?

 

I need a hand,

 

A hand to lift me,

To bandage,

To put a warm blanket around me,

To start the fire.

 

I need to stop,

 

Stop slipping, sliding.

Stop succumbing, self-suffering.

Someone saveme?

 

And do I need it?

 

“Am I overreacting”?

 

Yes, stop those thoughts.

 

Yes, I need it.

No, it may not be severe,

Yes, I need it.

 

Or I fear…

 

I’ll suffer like she,

Suffer and topple,

Crumble,

The unsteady, unstable tower that is,

Me.

 

[Be warned that the following two spoiler'd ones are a bit violent/disturbing, I suppose/perhaps. I wouldn't read them if you struggle with thoughts of self-harm or intrusive thoughts in general.]

 

Mutilation of the Mind

My mind…

Sometimes it hurts.

Thoughts can’t by thought,

Words can’t be produced,

Feelings aren’t real,

Nothing is true,

Nothing is real,

Nothing is known,

Yet nothing is unknown.

 

 

Knowledge is Pain

Knowledge is pain,

Life is suffering.

What I know,

Hurts me.

What I do not…

Does not.

What I don't know,

Will not hurt me.

Except when it does.

 

Moving, Can’t Think

Too many thoughts, too many too much.

Moving, twisting, shaking.

Thoughts,

Racing and racing each other,

Too fast to get out.

 

[Don't know if this warrants a CW/TW but... TW/CW for dissociation (idk what the word is) and general depressive stuff]

 

Back, Not Void, Somewhat

Back from that void I am,

Back thinking more,

Back,

Feel myself slipping,

Slippery,

It’s raining,

It’s cold and it’s raining,

It’s raining and I’m slipping on the grass,

It’s night and I cannot see.

 

Unknownable

It’s an unknownable,

Many some thinges.

Many some thinges are simply unknownablically.

And you and I and we must live with that and suffer too because suffering is life and life is suffering be we must eat egg saland because that is good for you because it just is because it is because it is because it is because it is because it is because it is because it is because it is not vanilla, you purist.

 

Vanilla Purist

Nothing is, nothing can be, be because of life.

Because of time, because of our bodies and minds and external environmental factors.

Because of automatics, because of sanity and reading, legibility,

Because nothing.

Because nothing can be vanilla, you purist.

Nothing.

Not unless you are a masochist.

But even then, what is boring is not suffer.

It is a headache it is not life it is plain it is nothing.

Why suffer in that way.

Then again, Vanilla Purist, you do not know what you are not missing.

But then again, Vanilla Purist, you cannot go back once you get a taste.

You cannot, do not want to, you cannot, you cannot possibly, once you see beyond the Wall.

Outside the Game, of Life.

 

Soni

A girl, a girl.

A lonely girl,

No, a dead girl.

A happy girl, now dead.

A young girl, dead now.

Too late, time gone.

Time passed, no rewind, no pause.

Nothing nothing.

Nothing Nothing, Nothing and Nothing of Nothing Nothing Nothing.

A girl a girl a girl now Nothing

A girl now Nothing.

Girl-Now-Nothing.

 

Brain Exhausted Mind

My mind is gone, now.

Exhausted and used-up.

My thought expenditure has exceeded my budget, capacity.

Thinking makes me sick, now.

Thinking makes me sick.

I don’t want to think,

I want to do nothing,

Utterly nothing,

Nothing at all,

Nothing.

Just nothing,

No Bad Entertainment,

No work,

No exercisework.

Nothing, because nothing exist.

Nothing, because minds are fragile and weak, yet resilient?

Nothing, because I have used up my energy,

Because I am used-up.

Squeezed dry,

So I thought.

But like it,

There is always just a bit left.

Always.

Always a few more drops,

A cache you never knew of,

Never knew you ha-ah-ad.

 

[TW suicide and depression, CW suicidal ideation and depression]

 

The Cliche Way

I avoid the cliche way,

I restructure the phrase, the sentence, so commonly-spoke.

I put the idioms and common and unoriginals in quotes, letting you know I know.

I… why am I this way?

Why must I Explain-To-You-My-Every-Thought-Process?

Why?

And why does using something,

Someone else has,

Make me,

Sick?

Unless, that is, I clarify,

That I am aware,

Of how stupid I think I sound,

Because I see that stupidity,

I cringe at the pop-song lyrics,

The firsthandaccounts,

The AI slop.

And thus I,

Try,

To make it original,

What I say, that is.

I use archaics,

Abbreviations,

Other languages,

Neologisms,

Everything, Everything.

And still nothing?

Still I don’t always know

What I am sayin’.

 

Kararaia-dom

So Ron, Do You,

Think Of Me Too,

Or Have You Just,

Moved On, Forgotten?

 

WaTaShi-WA

What am I?

Watashiwa…

Who am I?
Watashiwa…

A suffering soul…

A tortured torturer, as I am the torturee.

Like Our Dour ol’ Boros,

Or many-an-other.

I torture myself,

Sometimes unaware.

I seek suffering,

I seek help.

I suffer from something,

Something elusive.

I suffer from depression,

I suffer from life,

I suffer from my mind,

And perhaps I’ve always known it,

Perhaps I’ve been correct,

In saying I’m crazy,

Thinking I’m insane,

Though not really,

Though yes really,

Though in a joke,

Though too-many-a-joke.

Too many to be unreal, perhaps?

Or just some delusional illusionary false belief?

 

Musical Cough

Cough cough,

Something of a tune,

A musical Cough (no meanin there),

Yet something irritating,

A cough that makes me

Want to

Tear out my ears,

And never hear again.

 

Sensory Overload, “”

Too much.

A little thing, that stabs me each time.

Not the good stab, neither.

A stab to my brain,

To my ears to my mind.

Makes me want to dive off a cliff,

Just to escape.

Makes me want to run like a Flash,

To a secluded place,

To a deprivation-of-senses chamber.

Or better yet,

Not that but,

Freedom.

Freedom and silence,

With noise, however.

Not the oppressive silence,

But music that I like,

Music,

Music not distracting or gross,

Not the music that makes me sick to my stomach that makes me aware of my hunger.

And luckily, I have that.

Thus I can survive,

I can live through life, now,

Rather than dying painfully,

Yet never fully (no-such-relief).

 

silence with music

Heaven, relief respite, peace calm, ability to think again.

Silence, with a side of music.

Music to drown out all sounds,

To break the silence.

To make me forget about other sensations,

Hunger, thirst, hearing.

The presence of others.

 

Cacophonic

The Eldritch speech of the Schizophrenic Gods’ voices.

In the crowd, I hear them.

I listen, but differently.

I hear them.

I hear it,

The cacophonic speech around me, from them—the crowd.

Muttering and unmakeoutable sounds.

Not muttering, buzzing.

Buzzing buzzing buzzing, speeching, buzzing.

Drowning,

But not.

Something unpleasant,

But that has me hooked like 9Lana.

 

Is there meaning there?

 

Or is this just an intrigue,

One of Those?

Watching-piqued?

 

[CW/TW suicide]

 

Adapting to the Peeps

Adaptive language,

Appealing language,

To try to fit in (to sell),

Yet you make a fool of yourself.

 

Corrupted by Knowledge

I am corrupted by what I sought and what I seek.

Corrupted, my actions are.

Not my own, my words are.

Embodying the list, …or what?

 

[Removed poem thing (don't worry, you're not missing much lol)]

Wanting to Suffer

Lily wanted to feel, and joy was too difficult. Pain was easier. Back when she'd lived with... her family, she had often prolonged out the hunger, letting it persist for a few hours, or a day, before forcing something down because... that's what she was supposed to do. Her family had... taken notice, however, and so she had been forced to eat and be monitored. Why couldn't they just let her... do what she wanted? Deep down, Lily knew there was something wrong with her, but as long as no one but her knew, it would be okay. So, she had taken to hiding it, especially when her parents finally allowed her to attend school. It was much easier, that way. She could go to her hiding spot during lunch break. Since the school had breakfasts, she could easily say she would just get breakfast there. Maybe one day there wasn't enough time to eat at home, or she liked the school food better. Either way, it had finally allowed her freedom. Now, she didn't even have to live with them anymore. She didn't often speak with them, now that she thought of it. She sometimes felt guilty for that, but life at college was better, she told herself. Lily sometimes... actually wanted food. She tried to ignore those times or suppress the desire. Luckily, she usually got full or sick after a few bites. Yes... Sometimes the thought of food made her feel queasy. The same was true when she had a nearly-full plate of food in front of her and really didn't want to eat. Other times, she just wanted to... revel in the intense hunger that twisted her stomach and made her feel hollow.

 

Lily didn't know why she wanted to suffer, she just... did. It felt good, somehow. Or the thought of it. Lying face-up on her bed, she automatically turned her head toward her desk, where her scissors... used to be. They were now stuffed under her bed somewhere. Or maybe in the back of a drawer. She couldn't remember where she'd hid them, and couldn't bring herself to get up and dig through the mess for them. Instead, her eyes moved to her disorderly books. Sometimes she wanted to feel what those characters did. When they were stabbed or sleep-deprived or broken—in body and mind. She didn't want to die, usually. She just wanted to be on the verge of it. She wanted to suffer, yet survive. She wanted to... to have someone care for her, to treat her wounds, to care enough to call an ambulance, to cry for her, to bring her back to life. Maybe that was selfish of her, maybe she was just... not well mentally... or maybe... she didn't know. She tries not thinking about it, but when she did it was always confusing. She couldn't separate her feelings from others', her thoughts from others'. She couldn't figure out which thoughts belonged to which layer of truth, or what feelings existed. She did know that, on some level, she wanted to suffer. She wanted to hold her breath underwater forever. Wanted to collapse unconscious, have someone save her. She wanted... both control and lack of it. She had never confessed these feelings, though she had known them for... for years, many, many years. She hadn't even fully acknowledged them herself, at least not since she'd... learned what it could mean about her. She had internally realized that people like... like her... were not accepted. They were outcasts, the "bad" people. The crazy. The... the people who needed help. Lily... had wished she was like them. Maybe she was. Or... maybe she had just... absorbed it into herself, making it her identity. Either way, she... she was fine. She could just keep going like this. It brought her joy, right? On some level?

 

Lily's mind returned to... reality... and she found herself on her knees on the floor. Why was she here? Her arms were under her bed, like she... had been searching for something. Oh. She turned over and lay on her back on the floor. Where had she been? Eh, it didn't matter. Hopefully nothing important. Knowing her, just some depressing nonsense like usual.

 

What was wrong with her? She wanted to fully embrace that... side of herself, but somehow held back. She felt a tug both ways. Something stopped her from... from... doing something that she was supposed to regret. From hurting herself even more. Yet she also had such a desire for it. She... embraced depression, made it who she was. It was comfortable. Relatable. The norm, at this point.

 

Lily sort of felt... separated, from the others. From... "reality." She lived in her mind, which was housed in a moving corpse that she so desperately wanted to neglect, break, hurt, leave lying in a field somewhere, on a park bench, on... on a road. In the times Lily was around people, she felt disconnected from them. When they laughed, she either softly chuckled along to fit in. She didn't engage, she isolated herself. It was better that way. They could probably tell she was depressed when she was around them anyway, or would pick up on it. She just didn't feel like interacting with anyone. It was... a strain. A... nuisance, perhaps. It just took up time and was pointless. Time she could better spend... suffering, alone. That way no one would know. No one would comment, no one would... care. And... it made her feel more authentic, knowing she wasn't doing it just for the... attention. Even if she knew that's part of what she wanted, in the end.

 

What would her life be like, after college? Would she even be able to function, completely on her own? It would all be solved if she could just... leave behind this shameful part of her that... she'd had for maybe a decade at this point. Who was she, without everything? It stripped away, what was left? A corpse with no mind? Or perhaps a better mind? One that is healthy, that functions properly, that doesn't work against itself, doesn't actively ruin its life? Did Lily want that? She knew she should... but at the same time, if she were healed, would she even have struggled? Where was the... proof? Was she expected to just ignore it and move on? She wanted to get better because of expectations, but also wanted to stay this way—even have it worse—because... she wanted to suffer. Suffering meant worth. Suffering meant being... deserving of care and empathy. If she was healthy, she was just another cog in the machine, blissfully unaware. Or... it meant there was no reason for her issues. It meant... she suffered for nothing but her own selfishness. Lily... Lily didn't know if she could live with herself if the past ten years—no, her whole life—had been her own fault. A life of suffering because she was ungrateful and stupid. Because she wanted... well, she didn't even know what it was she wanted at this point. But suffering was easy.

 

Without moving from her spot on the carpet, Lily reached under her bed and—suddenly remembering—grasped the scissors. She sat up, vision blurring, and rolled up the left leg of her PJs. Half-conscious, she gently put the cool blade against the skin of her thigh. It felt... interesting. What would it feel like to—

 

No. What the hell was she doing? She lifted the scissors, finding a scratch, as if she'd jerked the scissors suddenly. It... didn't seem to be bleeding. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. She clenched her fists, dropping the scissors. As she often did, she pressed her hands against her thighs, fingers curled and nails digging into her skin. She felt the tears forming, and soon she could barely see through them. She wanted to... let out her intense frustration and shame and guilt and hatred for herself and her stupidity and inability to do anything right or just... get help. No wonder she wanted to... inflict suffering upon herself. Hurt herself. She felt trapped. She couldn't let out her intense feelings. She didn't even have anyone to sob to. Anyone to listen, to comfort her, to care, to be there, to worry... nothing. She drew in a shaky breath, tears still streaming down her cheeks, and tried to calm down. To go back to feeling nothing. She found it hard, though. She felt a lump in her throat, and the tears returned in full force. She lay back down, curling up on her side, and could feel the scissors protruding into her ribs but didn't have the care or energy to move.