I do not desire food, nor do I desire company. I want sustenance and I require love. I want the ends, not the means. The means require work I am not willing to expend. I have become “lazier than the furniture.”
I am sick of punk rock, something that rarely, if EVER happens. I am done with my paper, yet afterwards, rejoicing is brief. Decent into utter apathy consumes me. Poetry is life, emo is not an abstract phrase. It is a state of mind.
Overstatement, and exaggeration. Other’s disbelief at my remarks. “No one understands!” That is a lie from hell. But it still burns; it still draws blood.
Focus is barely managed. Spell check is my crutch. It causes me to stumble, it causes me to fail.
I feel like the instrument I write upon: slipping ever nearer towards running out of juice, but yet, never quiet reaching 0%. The constant state of wanting to be full, but never being empty.
Contentment, like a flower, is fleeting. It blooms with such beauty, but withers with the lightest frost. Resilient it is not.
Melancholy. LORD, save me from its grasp. It clutches at my heart. It tugs upon my mind. It consumes like cancer. Like an infectious hardcore song it eats away at body and soul.
“LORD, save me from myself."
And yet thought you may despair, God shows grace. He shows that He is still the one who brought you into this place called life, called you to Himself, and sustains you through all.
You may not give a hoot, you may be sick of life through and through; you may not be able to feel a thing. Then God’s beaming sense of humor shines through the dark, dark clouds of the mundane. A blonde, and box of Lego, leaves crunching underneath the soles of your feet, someone who is completely baffled by your sour outlook on life, yet stays to listen as you ramble on uselessly. These are the things God uses. He shows up at the last second, then He defies your expectations, blows your mind, and blesses your socks off.
Scott
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