It has been almost a year,

since the last time I sunk a razorblade into the soft,

breakable flesh I call my own,

but it hasn't even been a minute,

since the last I wept for the future,

 

An empty feeling crawls into the pit of my stomach,

when I realize it doesn't matter what harm is brought upon me,

for I do not matter,

in the grand scheme of things I,

being one peron,

cannot change the course of the universe,

and will not matter now or ever,

 

I am a human being, 

I have no super powers that come from the tears I let cascade down my cheeks,

and no will to go on anymore than the boy struggling to keep his grades up,

There is no motivation inside of me,

that helps me realize I may be able to do something,

something ebtter for myself, and the world I live in,

 

So I sit,

comtemplating once more if reaching for a blade that is not there is worth it in the end,

An empty feeling in my gut,

and hopelessness clouding my vision,

as I write this,

trying to make something out of nothing,

in order to make myself feel as though I have a chance in this world,

 

Take another Paxil,

with another short glass of water filled halfway full,

and look in the mirror,

without doubting the power of self inflicted pain,

and pills the doctors s ay will help,

because the art I create,

is not the type of art that will change the world,

 

This is worthless writing,

that will only make the sad sadder,

and the hopeless, 

gone.