There are people out there starving, dying and just all around being tortured by life while I sit here in my room typing this very sentence, in my mom’s two story house with food stalked in the fridge and in the cabinets; I whine and complain about what I feel and my past when it’s been better than others. I lecture myself in a stern voice that echo’s in my conscious mind, I tell myself that what I’m feeling is dumb because others are worse off but my body and mind betray this thought as my heart still aches and these emotions cripple me and leave me slumped in my bed, in my room while still typing this poem, journal entry, whatever the fuck it is, in my mom’s two story house.
Days like these are hard to explain because my emotions are hard to explain because it’s more of a lack of emotions; I don’t feel like I should exist. I feel like a shell with nothing inside and I question who I am and if life is real even though I know it is. I need to see a therapist (this is something I repeat over and over with no actions taken to show for)
