• oh how this broken record spins,
    spitting uncontrollable, discordant harmonies, blaring into the night sky.
    in it, I find some sort of warped comfort, as if,
    if this broken, redundant peice of musical composition can have such a resounding presence in this world,
    than maybe i, another broken object, can leave my mark as well.
    so i lay, ears ringing with the din of an off beat wail, staring deep into the night sky
    and i feel as if it is a sentient being, poring even deeper back into my soul

    i wonder which is darker?

    i wonder if the sentient in the sky can see my pain, my caged emotions,
    i wonder if it, or any other sentient being for that matter, even cares.
    i wonder if that feeling of having years of pent-up emotion will ever come tumbling out,
    like the water behind a dam awaiting for its inevitable collapse, never if, only when,
    when will these waters of anger, seas of frustration come tearing into my head,
    and bleed out through my mouth, freeing itself through my fists.

    there is a new hole in my bedroom wall,
    and suddenly the amount of bones in my hand have doubled.

    the reason for the anger, for the breaking of the dam remains,
    as persistent as gravity upon my broken, weighed-down shell,
    but it satiates the ever-hungry ocean of anger, and the dam begins to rebuild,
    as if in breaking my own body, i am hurting the thing i hate most,
    which in a way, is true.

    so i let the blood drip, and let the dam rebuild, stare into the hole i created in that mixture of plaster and paint,
    and feel the hole in my chest slowly close, never fully, but it is an improvement.
    even though, in the end, nothing has changed,
    the dam will survive to break again,
    my hand will heal to hurt again
    the child will grow, to die, and be born again
    the cycle has continued on into infinity.

    people will swear that things change as time goes on, that the things they do matter,
    and in some ways, some very small, abysmal way, some things do,
    but the sun still rises, and the sun still sets, like it has since time began, and will do till it ends.

    It is like our minds to try and cut things down to a reasonable size,
    as if seeing life as only our small reality will help lessen the unbearable pain of living, of being purposeless,
    and so our little frame of mind is ever-changing in subtle ways,
    and everyone wants to change, no one is satisfied with what they have,
    the human brain is ugly like that, a rough, calloused, dying coral, in a deep sea of cruelty and hatred,
    but, like a small wave in that large ocean, our grasps for change make no real effect,
    and the sea goes on crashing against the shore as it has and will, for all time.
    we are infinitismly small.
    ...and it kills us