weasel.md
In the eyes of the weasel
Nothing ever changes
The loneliness stays put
But the heart always rages
Because in its emptiness, the weasel wonders
For it can't help but stop and ponder:
When will our end ever come?
When will we be ever loved?
And to the weasel, the angel says
I can't help but see your ways
In the light, the shade you seek
But in the cold, you hear the creaks
Of a past life in a different forest
Or a liking raven in your doorstep
It is not what you think it is
For in your home, it will grow its weeds
Then how, oh how, the weasel says
Will I ever come to be and make
Better things and better doors
Or better thoughts and something strong?
To make myself be even harder,
To use this shell and lose desire
Willingly hopeless, I say you are
Because a poor man can't hear your tunes
No strings are broken on your guitar
But in your words the soul is pruned
To overcome what is here and there
Your own mind will come to bear
The weight of your actions and your fears
The amplified scream of a thoughtless deer
The blurry lines and the blurry faces
The missing pieces and
The weasel.
Sep 2, 2024, 6:43:23 PM
Things are hard and my brain needs to go somewhere
Today is a Monday. I'd be dying by now if it wasn't for the breeze. How poetic.
It is some sort of holiday, so there is no one on the street. I'm sure that classrooms are also empty, but I have been feeling empty for longer than them. How poetic.
Everything seems so much more manageable when I have someone to talk to. This is close enough. I don't want to go back to being alone, but I also don't want to be stuck under the weight of someone else's existence.
There are so many problems, but thinking about them is hard. I prefer not to think whenever possible. I believe this avoidance is just part of the human experience. But sometimes I feel like being human is not enough.
Am I doing something wrong? I will never know. I can never know how much better my life could be. Maybe this is the peak of my existence, but I will never know. I can only sense it going down, and I can only sense my time fleeing.
I want to be motivational. I always am in my writing. But today I feel like embracing the sadness. There's a certain comfort in melancholy. It's like a warm blanket covering me with regret.
I could listen to some sad songs, or maybe draw an ugly thought. It is fun to think of everything I could do with this sadness. It is almost going away. What a wasted opportunity.