Stuck an Interrobang.

I used to be happy
what happened to me?
All I ever wanted was to be normal
and I can’t fuckin be.
I can’t see a day
that I could smile again
I’m used to this now.
I’m growing tired of being.

Stuck; at a lie of an interrobang…
asking questions I already know answers for
without a hint of hope or a ghost of life &
I believe, I was made to be alone, again.
I have shredded pictures, grieving
in all my yesterdays, when I was angry
the same anger that I was hung over this morning;
with the hatred of existence haunting my memory.

I’ve already forgotten love’s fragrance
and it, my countenance…
it’s been so long since I’ve felt,
I doubt if there’s another bout.
I can’t stand my voice
I don’t remember me.
I don’t write a journal now
only sorry tales reminding me of me.

Even as one of my mistakes
peace has ceased to exist in life.
But yeah, I don’t hate me,
I don’t care enough to
but I got that covered cuz I catalogue
plenty of reasons for when I would want to.
Surely, even then, I almost see myself accepting me
in utter hatred, mutilating whatever’s left of this psyche.

And I can’t stop myself from telling the world
how it made me feel & how they’re times old.
And why love’s a bad habit, causing willing vulnerability,
claiming lives off broken hearts; too many casualties.
I know now that I’m stuck here, in a crack in time,
in a state of constant loathe, forever an interrobang
for there be no answers to existential questions mine
& in the wondrous name of life, I be eternally damned.



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