Who else feels as emotionally lost as I do. Maybe it’s the boredom that’s just creeping up on my very neck, maybe it’s the guilt that I burden now, since I’ve done suspicious wrongs in the past.

What do I deserve? I toss and turn around in my bed. My usual insomnia. But why! I can’t help but think, then somewhere between the deep thoughts of my personal haven… I am emotionally lost.

I am disconnected within myself.
How do I find a reason to believe in me, what I don’t believe in myself.
How do I torture what I need not, to get faith in my own status.
———–
How do I not flourish within my gardens of which
Apples, they grow not. Instead, the jade vines creep, but
How. I do not reason.

My garden is dying a death even though it’s dead.
Where my compost that is joy, cannot fertilise what I need to grow my flowers upon.

My seeds. They are plenty. But small. But hopeless.
How do I plant them in my sweet little garden. How do I grow them, as I grow myself….
The sunlight that it needs. Nature apologize. There is no Sun in this wilderness spooky forest.
Water the seeds, it needs hydration! But the water springs no leaks from my eyes.
The liquid burns from the pus of pimples that grows due to the dirt!
The dirt is not compost. The dirt is not fertiliser.
The dirt is the sins, the guilt that I surpress, the sadness I repent.

A spade, a shovel, a rake, a pot. Secateurs, a pair of magical secateurs.
I want to farm myself a beautiful garden. I want these dead trees to bloom lushness and joy.
I want to see apple trees. Acorns on oaks. Weeping willows.
Can someone let the Sun through!
No. I am another of me. I am black. I am wicked. I block myself. I block you. I block me. No light.

No light.
Everyday wake up to see… darkness.
No light.

Maybe someday the Sun will shine, if I have an axe to chop these trees that have surrounded
The fragility of my feelings
But if I were to chop them down
I were to chop myself with them
Bloodshed only I could see, as it burns happily to darker skies

My seeds. Where do I place them now.
Grow they will not.
Who would want my seeds! They are vile! Wicked! Black!

You spawn hatred, disgust and malevolence with these seeds of mine.
These seeds which I hold dear in my hands.
In another’s, they take over with black black intent.

The clouds. Crimson. From the tears that transpire.
The ground. Crimson. From the blood that flows.
The heart. Crimson, gold. But not any longer.

On your knees. On your knees.

Beg for mercy, you piece of filth. Deserve you, this world does not.

Even the compost is purer than you. You are an object of contempt.

Leave this garden.

Leave.

But it’s mine.

Leave, I say.

Who is making me leave?

Me….

Me?

Or is it me?