Pitty
I'm tired of writing. It all feels fake and worthless. I can't see the world I'm trying to create, nor can I understand the characters I try to portray. It's all flat and hollow, and the limit is my own. Everything I make falls flat. I build statues out of dust and cry when the wind blows them away.
I want to create something alive, yet I'm a man who has never truly lived, and I can't create what I lack. All my work shows it. Nothing breathes. A dull man can only make dull words. I write of trauma and misery, yet I can't put them onto the page. Joy and happiness are things I've never felt. If I were a god, I would only be absent from my creation.
Hollow and void is what I know, and it bleeds into every line. Nothing stands. Even as I write this, it feels fake.
A failed poet. A failed soldier. A failed writer. I walk this planet birthing only failure, then cry about it. The only thing I seem able to grow is my self-hatred and paranoia.
And there's the irony. When I look back at my life with that hatred whispering in my ear, I see exactly where I failed and how things could have been. Yet even the dagger I drive into my own heart draws no pain.
Hollow and void.
Even my dreams have left me.
If I were a farmer, I could grow only weeds—not because of my hand, but in spite of it.
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