17 Is the toughest age
To be honest with you
Circumstances are forcing me to let go of all the things I hold dear
I am slowly succumbing to the demon I call fear
Yesterday, I dreamt of the reaper
We were chilling under the tree of life
Debating about the significance of my existence
In this vast and endless realm
Which always seems warped like some lucid dream
I am learning that nothing is ever what it seems like
People wear smiles as masks
To hide the misery and pain lurking beneath
With quivering and shaking hands
I am trying to hold onto the hope
That is hell bent on escaping from within me
All I will ever want is to be truly free
But how can that be
When birds are also chained to the sky
Daily I chant a mantra
“I do not want to die,
“I just want to spontaneously combust into bits of nothingness”
Which is a bluff
Because ceasing to exist is a prime fantasy of mine