The screaming of my soul cannot be transferred to paper, to words, to ideas. There is no logic to the feeling. Indescribable yet it exists. A shriek of injustice, of anger, of misery. Nothing quite sounds right. Get up, go to work, get up, go to work, get up, go to work. Come back and regret where the hours went. They would all be better off without you. You know that as a fact. Confirmed countless times. Over and over and over and over. In case your ridiculous little brain dared to hope it isn't true. Unbearable to be around. Your father was right. Impossible to love. Your father was right. Usless and hysterical. Your father was right. The clocks tick down your seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. What you have left must be shared. 99 to 1. The 1 must then be halved because you don't deserve that much. Company. You want other people's time. You ask for too much. Time is precious and you are not. You are nothing compared to wasting time. If the world had a core you'd be burning in it while the world steps on you. Keeping them warm with heels stabbed into your skull. Get up, go to work, come back, get up, go to work, come back, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up
