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My name is BlogXilla.
I am 27 years old.
I'm from Elizabeth NJ now In Atlanta.
I believe In the Power of the P.U.S.S.Y...

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Friday, April 06, 2007
As he laid at the bottom of a bottomless pit, the silence suffocated his heart. A once vibrant spirit is now nothing more then a forgotten speck, on a forgotten land in the corner of a unwanted world of pain. He yearn for art but reaches for the bile pollutes the streets. He fears himself, his ability and his needs. An anti social extrovert walking through crowds of unwanted waste called flesh. He sees the world through rose colors glass always weary of death, in constant fear that one day he will truly accept himself as the worthless piece of scum he stares at in the mirror. His world is quarantined, cut off and blocked from others yet he begs for company. People perceive him to be a lady's man when he has yet to master the art, or even figure out how to open the kit to tell him to know how.

His mind is studied examined and picked apart by others as well as himself. He does not understand the answers he finds to the questions he seeks. He weeps in the dark while no tears fall from his pupils, his barren tear ducks produce no offspring of tears, though they pour out a steady stream of liquid that isn't there. For he was taught a man doesn't cry. So he puts on a borrowed smile b/c that's what other's wants, he stares failure in the face as he wades through mistake, after mistake, lost after lost, hoping the next answer he find in the rubble of skill will be the one to set him free. Yet as messenger after messenger is brought in front of him, deep in his heart he knows, she will be just another failure in his quest for a companion. While the one he wants is miles away...


They tell us that suicide is the greatest piece of cowardice; . . . that suicide is wrong; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in the world to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life and person. Suicide sometimes proceeds from cowardice, but not always; for cowardice sometimes prevents it; since as many live because they are afraid to die, as die because they are afraid to live. I want to live, but my life won't let me, so until then should I sit and wait for permission to go outside? Permission to go out and play in the world of the big dogs, a world where no one gives a fuck about anyone else's emotions or feelings, where selfishness trumps respects. In a world where seeing is believe and faith is a forgotten art tucked in the corner of Atlantis.

Blogxilla [ 5:46 PM ]

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