For Lack of

(Disclaimer: I did not write this with readability or cohesion in mind. This is not a journal or a work of writing. What you’re reading is unorganized thoughts.)

I struggle to formulate words or sentences. The pen feels dry; scraping the paper leaving nothing but some traces. Constant knocking at the back of my head. Oh, why? Just leave. I have to focus on this. I have to make one last thing before I leave this shithole. Words betray me. All my knowledge and logic is holding me back. I have nothing solid. It’s abstract. It flows in and out of vague forms. I can’t mold them. I can’t make them real.

The pen is still dry. The sound of scraping is driving me insane but not enough to push me over the edge. I wish it did. Maybe then I’d muster up the courage to end it all. Not worry about my obligations and promises to other people that probably don’t remember anymore. But they do. I know it. I just don’t believe it.

Fuck… now the paper is ruined. My pen is still dry. Nothing but self-loathing so far. It makes me angry. I wish I could let it out. I wish I was that angry and energetic boy that I used to be. I didn’t know it but I was happy… from where I’m standing right now. Nevermind how low it is.

I gave up on words. I stab the paper hoping it bleeds. I run across it. Making shapes and figures. Not really though. I’m just angry. Not at anyone though. That’d be rude and inconsiderate. I learned to eat my words a long time ago. Kept me fed so far. But nothing tastes good anymore. I only eat to stay alive even though I’m tired of it. Internalize it all. They’re yours and yours to deal with. It’s selfish to think others have any responsibility for your happiness and well being.

Well no. Fuck that. I made that clear to you. You keep ignoring me. Kept me locked up. you think I’m the child? Who’s the naive crippled fuck here that can’t expect the bad in people? I’m the child now? You bury the sting and let the words burn right through so you can sit here stabbing paper? I can’t let you steer us down another cliff. If you could just hate… you could’ve hated yourself sooner for your fuck up years ago. We wouldn’t be here. You could’ve hated all these low-life assholes that will never look you in the eye. You could’ve had me all these years. You didn’t have to be alone with these hollows.

The more I drag across the blank stare the more it bleeds. No form, no meaning. Just expression. It runs smooth. Slashing open my brain. More blood. Deeper than skin or thought, knocking on the bone. Shivers rushing through it all. An ocean of blood. As dark and as tranquil as Yalda’s night sky.

All this is… here.



It feels the same. The sky, clouds, night-time drawings, streetlights tracing the cold windowpane, scraping asphalt under the dim pale orange, wailing red dance that fills the air, booming silence, songs echoing… they all feel the same.

I feel at home.


My voices sway to the turn of the clock


I feed the joyless hunger

I feel the yearning

I fear the elusive

I fear the change is all I know