Front Yard

so insanely fucked up that i have to spend the rest of my life working like. ten times as hard to function as a normal person because of shit that wasn't my fault. wdym i have to spend the rest of my life medicated and in therapy just because my parents were mean to me and then died?????????????? like at what point is that shit worth it because i'm medicated and going to therapy and i still have absolutely zero hope for myself. nothing has changed except the fact that everything has gotten progressively worse and it's my fault but i don't know how to end the cycle i genuinely can't take this

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

My mind is a prison Tbh

i live in the memories of the abuse and i truly don’t think i’ll ever get out

I AM SO FUCKING TIRED OF BEING BRAVE! I AM SO FUCKING TIRED OF SURVIVING! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? AM I BEING TOO QUIET OR HAS MY WHINING BEGAN TO SOUND LIKE WHITE NOISE? I AM TIRED OF BEING BRAVE. I AM TIRED OF FEELING INHUMAN AND CALLING IT SURVIVAL. I AM TIRED OF BEING BRAVE. DID YOU HEAR ME? CAN YOU?

posting on tumblr is like yapping into the void except the void is filled with ship posts of grown men

I wish I liked myself

I wish I was a bear so I’d have a cave to crawl back into. Plus I could sleep all the time

tldr; i need to get the fuck out of my head

the idea of it is so liberating, quiet, and eternal; yet at the same time it is so horrifying, parlous, and uncertain.

i am a phony man, a paper tiger. sometimes i feel like i walk around with a plastic trophy of survival on display, presenting myself as some sort of phony symbol of courage, of survival. i walk around with glass skin, fractured and stained, and i know people see the cracks. i know i am breaking. you do not have to gaze upon me with such contempt. i am a sunbittern, flashing my wings, making myself look big. to protect myself? maybe, that’s what i like to tell myself, but i know it boils down to attention. it boils down to my sickening desire to be seen as something more than i really am. i make my trivial successes seem like home-runs, i make my words sound more significant than they really are, and i make my survival sound more epic than it really is. i am a liar, a con man, with my immaturity and pseudo-boy mentality. i was born a liar, and i will die one.

i guess there’s not much to tell that hasn’t already been told. i was forged in a broken household seemingly forgotten by god. i was raised by a broken man with skeletons, and bottles alike, in his closet, and a woman sipping whiskey and spitting violence between her prayers; both killed by their poisons. i used to take strikes at the hands of those who were supposed to protect me, with my body tallying the score. i still feel it, you know. that fear. i feel it all the time, like i’m just waiting for the next blow. i know this is odd, but sometimes i wish they were still around to hit me, i wish i had more proof than distant memories. i wish i had something more than a faded recollection of my mother’s venomous words and firm hand, and my father’s brutality. the only proof that’s substantial is buried in my flesh. however, i forgive my father, sometimes it seemed like he was just a scared boy in a worn man’s body. my mother on the other hand, is not so easily forgiven. her wrath and rage ran deep, and when it was fueled by the liquor, it was hard to believe a mother was supposed to love like that. but she was a girl too, alone and fatherless. i think about her as a girl and it makes it harder to believe she was so cruel.

i don’t really know the point i’m trying to drive home. i just feel so behind, and i’m constantly running out of time. every second that passes is a moment of time i’ve lost, and the overwhelming majority of them are wasted. i waste so much time smoking pot but it’s the only thing that makes me feel okay. i can’t do school, i can’t take care of myself, i can’t properly care for others, and i can’t seem to clean my room no matter how bad i want to. and i know it’s a whole mindset thing blah blah blah, i’ve heard it all before. i know i’m not getting much better at all, and i know the habits preventing me from doing so, yet it feels like i’m completely trapped in cycles. i am so tired. and this is a bunch of word vomit bullshit and i don’t think anyone will read this far. but i am just so fucking bad at being human dude. i am a complete failure. i have accomplished nothing, and i don’t know how to be alive. i don’t understand things that most people do, and i just can’t seem to do anything functionally these days.

i guess for now i won’t seek out what is beyond our existence, but the thought of doing so taps at the back of my skull to the tune of gymnopédie no. 1, a haunting constant in my mind.

i just wish i was normal so bad man

That one was too edgy for the blr my bad

Currently bashing my head into the wall