An Outlet

To this day, 

I still remember the first time I felt like this. 

This feeling of where the momentume of life 

was slowly diminishing; 

This feeling of how hopelessly in love I was with someone 

who seemed to be out or reach; 

This feeling of how I ran away from my home country 

because I couldn't handle my previous life; 

This feeling of how much I strive to hide myself 

so that I can be adored by others; 

This feeling of no matter how much I try to be what everyone wants me to be, 

I simply cannot. 

The effortless yet complicated feeling of how 

I wish I didn’t have to think anymore,

I hope that my brain would slow down, 

and I desire some sort of clarity within it all.

Then, perhaps my body will stop completely. 

Suddenly, the conclusion appeared.

This feeling of pure chaotic, perplexing desolation

that is dragging me towards the darkness like a 

broom sweeping up unwasted dust and dirt;

This feeling of constant and straining perturbation of uncontrolled blindless

like a fog covering the land after a storm

so that no one will be able to see the destruction it has done

is simply just me.

It is sad that this is the conclusion that I have stumbled upon.

This is because, since it is solely me that is the issue,

getting rid of the problem as soon as possible is the goal.

Music is not soothing to my ears,

Writing is stress on my hands,

Thinking are safes that cannot be opened,

Death is the outlet to infinite existence.