7 May 2012
The music blares, to drown out the thought, That all of my struggles, they were for nought.
I can't believe that I fell for the trick they call life. All it has brought me is countless strife.
I don't know why I do continue, And much less why I'm confessing to you.
An Internet community, bound by writing, While those who converse by mouth are fighting.
Why do I feel safe as I think in verse? Is my rhyming soul some kind of curse?
Did I fuck up bad in a past incarnation? Or am I just a devil's creation?
Why do I ask questions? Am I not content with my knowledge? And why, just to make a rhyme, do I randomly use the word porridge.
I've probably ruined my poem right there, But I've realised that I no longer care.
I'm writing from my mixed up and messed up mind. I guess you could say I'm one of a kind.
Talentless, shy, and just another useless child, Living in the Earth that my predecessors defiled.
I still don't know why I whitter on, My audience is likely long gone.
But here I am, signing out, And there you are, wondering what this is about.
Turmoil Of The Mind • Opuss № I