Futile Struggles of a Self-Aware Parasite.

I began focusing on examining myself again when I realized I was getting too wrapped up in examining the outside world, being too critical of everything outside of myself and not enough within. Now I feel it has fallen the other way — I am too absorbed in my own issues, blocking out all else. It wouldn’t be half as bad if I was actually making some progress in my life, but it sustains its snail pace punctuated by enduring periods of stagnation.

I take more than I give. I let everyone down, and I cannot seem to remedy this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel so fucking out if place, so irreversibly maladaptive.

Killing myself inside over my failures doesn’t help, but I feel guilty just shrugging it off and continuing to try as everyone around me, it seems, shakes their head at me in frustration and pity behind my back.

Meditate. Medicate it all away.

Is there no way out of this fucking hell I’m trapped in? I am so over-reliant on everyone, so dependent. I feel like a parasite. A cancer to all those subjected to me. I feel guilty when they walk on eggshells around me and when they fail to, I overreact in my hypersensitivity.

I cannot win with me. They cannot win with me.

I’m so fucking sick of this.

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Rebel Without a Way.

So long, yet still struggling
with the world
around me, with myself.

Reaching for the stars,
quicksand at the kneecaps.
Head full, pockets empty.
with holes inside,
little graves in malnourished fabric
dug by stubbornly hopeful fingers.

It makes no sense,
how money is everything.
It makes no sense
how I can’t seem to fucking
make any.

Dreams aplenty,
intermittent ambition,
a short time that shines bright
just to give definition
to the darkness surrounding,
consuming.

This cage we created is filthy.
This game we play, a contract born into,
is unethical, unsustainable.
It kills me, needing to adapt,
shames me that try as I might,
I can’t.

I feel filthy.