Fog

These foggy nights remind of you,
And in similar fashion, both are unseen.
You constantly ask about my wellbeing,
But I wonder if that comfortable distance is part of your scheme.

I'd rather my life discontinue,
As opposed to questioning my daily inadequacy;
And rather than love you,
I'd find affection for the feeling of nothingness.
For I imagine this lack of pain as a state of euphoria that none of these psychedelics can compare to.

It saddens me greatly to know,
That despite childhood reassurances telling me to follow my dreams,
That these same people constantly oppose my true ambition in life.

I wonder if it will get better.
I turn to hobbies.
I fail.
There is no motivation.
There is no reason.
My inspiration,
My purpose,
My motivation,
Where the f**k are you?

I find comfort in the fact that each day brings me closer to the final,
Yet delayed gratification is lacking in my repertoire.
The temptation to do something drastic arises,
If only to meet a change of pace.

I pour out my heart,
And make it my art,
But I wonder if my only art you'll appreciate,
Will be the red drip down my wrists,
From the cleanly cut slit.

There is no hope,
And there is no end to this suffering.
The days distancing my soonest happiness from the present grow greater with each,
And I wonder if I can ever return to that state of happiness you brought me.

But there is only darkness,
From which I cannot escape.