I have nothing to write
There is nothing I can do
I am nothing
I hate myself.
I hate the extra six pounds hanging off my hips and thighs.
I hate the whiteish hair hanging around my face.
I hate, I hate, I hate
I am nothing but a vortex of useless emotion, unable to establish contact with the real world
I want to kill myself, but I'm afraid
Stuck in a dream world that's infinitely better than reality
I want to see you tonight
I want to touch your face and feel you hold me
But I can't, because I'm trapped with useless people, in a dull place the color of dishwater
I used to be a good writer.
I'm nothing now.
Come let me hate you.
I want to hurt everyone who has ever snubbed me, or ignored me, mocked me and hurt me
Embarassed me and scared me
Me, me, me.
I'm suicidal, depressed, psychotic, and utterly alone.
God can't help. He never has.
Why should he now?
Black, chains, punk, leather
I'm defined by how I dress, defined by how I think, defined by how much time I spend away from my utterly trivial family.
The only person who I have ever felt really cared about me... doesn't exist.
I don't trust John.
I don't trust my family.
I am alone.
I am hatred.
Don't touch me.
And all the mothers tell their children to stay away from me
And all the lovers who have no time for me
When even God has turned his face away from me