Final Dark Thoughts

I'm just doing what I do best.

Sitting here, alone, but for my dark thoughts.

Beating myself up over existing.

It's hot outside.
Too hot.

The cabbage trees rustle in a breeze that remains elusive inside of the hot, hot house;
even though my windows are wide open.

And I'm still sitting here, feeling fat, ugly, and absolutely boiling hot.

On the brink of tears.

I want
to take this 'perfect' house and rip it,
into teeny, tiny shreds.

Take all the boring, beige, nondescript furnishings,
pile them into the cobble stone street and watch them burn.

I want to take that bowl of horribly fattening crisps
and fling it
across the room,
and grimly smile as the ornate pottery shatters into a gazillion pieces.

I want to crush this 'perfect' world,
tear it apart,
then when there is nothing left I'll lie in the ashes, sobbing.

A storm is coming.

Ominous grey clouds are rolling in from all four corners of clone-central,
and the trees wave wildly in the now ruthless winds.

So why is this room still so damned hot?

I want the rain to come.

I want it, to come hard and fast
to stand on the roof
and be in the midst of it all as it crashes down.

I want to stand there, getting wetter by the second and scream.

Scream for all this horrible sadness, pain and ugly.

That's why I write, I guess.

Because, when you're all alone,
if you bottle up too many feeling inside you'll explode.

But it could already be too late.

I think I've shattered
into too many pieces.

I limp along
it's too late
to be fixed.