To whom do I say words, that I dare not say?

To whom do I complain about things I can't complain?

To whom do I entrust, my heart that won't trust?

To whom do I bare, all my naked anger?

To whom do I show, these sentiments hidden?

To whom do I pour, my destructive desires?

To whom do I sing, my melody-less songs?

To whom do I yell, these tired-sounding screams?

I am weak, tired, and half-lunatic,

I sometimes wish that I have no feelings.

I am sick, weathered, and desperate,

I sometimes wish that I don't exist.

Existence in its worst, is a disaster,

Fueled by desire, and dreams that inspire,

The volition for love and for truth that is neither,

As I dream of my sure death, the ultimate ending of my desire.