Mutter

Today everything seems pointless. I hate days like this. Days that are an obvious defeat of my youth. Days of malignant contemplation. Of habitual hatred and inner lamentation. Days when you call me to let me know that I'm still the dirty spit of the world. Long, hard conversations that build up like infrastructures to hell. At times you seem to thrive, on crushing every hope I have of ever becoming something to gladly greet in the mirror. At times, you are the boot on my neck. the needle in my arm; the bullet in my head.

You are my confusion, colorful and hazy. A purple cloud of acid rain, the melts my ruined childhood. As a child, I thought you were, the most beautiful angel of this dying world. And you, thought I was, the cruelest monster, ever aborted by this lovely world.

You hid me in my beard, you know. Away from the sun, from spring, from love. Always behind your little spyglass, spying; the fruit of your abandonment. Tell me do you know of my days? Days of nothing but bread,  followed by days of nothing at all. Did you hear the savage howl of my ravaged stomach? Did you see the people that fed it with crumbs of their work?
I've grown to fear you, you know. The power you have over me. The way you start silent implosions that make my ribs cave in. The black holes within me that you create and feed. The ink I spill, the tears I bleed. I wish I had more metaphors to tell you how much you destroy me.

You are undoubtedly the winter of my discontent. A nuclear winter that rages every now and then
to make sure nothing is still alive. To make sure I can't survive. I feel you gave the essence of sadness, you know. In the way you render me unable to speak my own language at times. In such a manner that I wish I was another 24 year old boy, in another country, in another time. Not this, not now.

I have dreams of crawling back into your womb and hanging myself with your umbilical chord or just simply dissolving into enexistence. I feel I need to rewind myself from your life.  And though you pit me against myself in battles to the death, from which I'm never victor; and though you tear me down like a whore; despite the dirt you shovel on my open grave, somehow I never cease to love you. I never cease to hope...