I feel sick.

I feel sick, im sad, im terribly depressed. and im sure that not something new. what the hell am i doing? where am i headed? ive been skipping school, and getting terrible grades. Im in my senior year, and im suposed to head to collage next year. I dont have what it takes to be in a good university, so im just headed to the neaest one.  

People I know are shutting me out again. I don’t know how to react this time. I guess I’ll just get lost like I did last time. I’m a freak, I know that, I don’t speak or talk easily. Which kind of bores people round me and I’m neither fun nor funny in any way, and it’s more pathetic when I try to be. I shouldn’t be allowed to tell jokes and I stink at playing anything. That’s why people hate me; I’m just too uncomfortable to be with.

I’m just some miscellaneous compound of things I like but that completely repel each other. I’m neurotically organized so I’m not happy or comfortable anywhere that is not my room, and everything it’s in its exact and perfect place. I feel every single thing I do it’s incomplete and has something wrong, that leads for me to start doing things and never be happy about them. Then I love the mess the mud, the wedgie, the bullying, the running the chaos.

I give no good first impression and when you are around me you can only get tired, because I’m tired, I’ve always been. I’m working on a book you know, and I hate it when I think about it, and I feel it’s just lame and stupid. But when I read I love it and I don’t find a way to change it. I’m stuck in the second chapter! I don’t know who to continue with it. I try to write other parts of the story but words don’t come out. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!

I’m so lost, I’m screwing my future every second that passes and I’m not enjoying the present, and I hate my past. Where should I go, what should I do?

I’m lost, and I know I’m not alone in this. But what does it help with when actually no one knows the way. I want to believe in something, but I don’t know what.

I need to have faith.

I only have faith.

Faith in that there is something more in me and the world that I have not yet discovered. Just something, anything.

(7 days late)

In a very weird way

In a very weird way a weird kid is great and lovable. But if you get older and u are still freak. Then it’s not so cute. It’s quite pathetic actually. I’m still a weird kid inside. Very queer and odd.

Silence, hear the drums… a deafening heartbeat across the universe…. Hear life.

Listen steps stumble across endless mountains, hear the screaming of innocents and warriors, pay attention to the noise in a park…. Close your eyes and listen.

Why am I their shattered king? I don’t mean anything.

Is it me? Is it you? Is it all of us?

(3 days late)

Wanting To Die

Wanting To Die
Poem by Anne Sexton

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns. 

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun. 

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build. 

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic. 

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. 

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body. 

Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile. 

To thrust all that life under your tongue!-
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say, 

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison. 

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, 

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

One day like any other, October 4, 1974, Anne returned home, (she had already said goodbye to her friends), and devoted herself to drinking vodka, at some point she got up, with the vodka in hand, went to her car, turned on the radio, started the engine and waited ...

I cant believe im writing a journal again.

I cant believe im writing a journal again. Its been so long, and pretty much nothing has changed except I now know what i want to do with my luife, i want to be a writer. Stupid huh?... well, i may not ever get published, but i want to write a story, a good one.

I'm  going through a crucial moment, Im finishing highschool and im screwing everything up. I realized im completely alone in the world and that theres absolutely no one for me.

 well, THATS a good 1st entry... theres nothing better to attracty an udience than to show them the tortutred thats writing. Now everyone will like to know abt me.
-yeah right-

I know im feeling what everyone feels at this stage of their lifes but if thats true then the entire world sucks and im not just being a nadaist without reason, there is a whole philosophy as a backgroud.

But its just to painful to write it down.

(83days late)

"Don't tell my mother, she has a heart condition."

"Don't tell my mother, she has a heart condition."
- note from suicidal #500 that jumped off the Golden Gate

So the dead whom he killed at his death were more than those whom he had killed during his life

26 And Samson said to the young man who held him by the hand, “Let me feel the pillars on which the house rests, that I may lean against them.” 27 Now the house was full of men and women. All the lords of the Philistines were there, and on the roof there were about 3,000 men and women, who looked on while Samson entertained.28 Then Samson called to the Lord and said, “O Lord God, please remember me and please strengthen me only this once, O God, that I may be avenged on the Philistines for my two eyes.” 29 And Samson grasped the two middle pillars on which the house rested, and he leaned his weight against them, his right hand on the one and his left hand on the other. 30 And Samson said, “Let me die with the Philistines.” Then he bowed with all his strength, and the house fell upon the lords and upon all the people who were in it. So the dead whom he killed at his death were more than those whom he had killed during his life.
Judges 16:26-30

Rhyme Against Living

Rhyme Against Living
Poem by Dorothy

Parker If wild my breast and sore my pride,
I bask in dreams of suicide;
If cool my heart and high my head,
I think, 'How lucky are the dead!'