Well, it's been a while since I last wrote, and I feel that there's a lot that needs to be said.
You know, I've tried to come up with ideas, but I guess I'm too scared to write
because I believe that I'm not good enough.
You see, I tried to write about joy, joining in journeys, but all that seems natural is
honesty, hurt, and hand grenades. It feels like I'm the tortured without the artist part,
and sometimes I feel like I'm God's big joke, just to be pushed around in a car
so that all of my friends and enemies could stand on their worn out soapboxes and laugh.
And laugh hysterically at the grand mistake that I've become,
but the laughter soon turns to resentment, and it leaves only one thing that needs to be said,
and that's I wish you were a better friend.
Well, I'm sorry that my depression has caused you so much pain, you know,
who asked you to stick around anyway? Why don't you just ascertain the situation
and leave me to drown in my own anger?
Because I'm angry.
Oh, I'm furious.
I'm furious at you for being furious with me about being furious at myself,
being furious at the situation which makes me furious when I'm just fed up.
And I just want to give up.
But I can't because there are so many people counting on me to stay alive
so that I won't cause them grief after I say goodbye.
I have to blow up to the standard and eat a big white lie
that apparently I have to be just like everyone else.
And it's a rotten, horrible life to live.
And I want to break out of it, but I'm met with so much connective disagreement
from the door in a peanut gallery, and it will be the end of me.
I swear I'll take a sieve right to my neck and drain all the blood out of it, yeah?
I've thought pretty seriously about suicide long and hard about how to go.
Then with a car off a bridge or a cup of cyanide,
I could possibly just throw a fist or two at a bargain hammer to try to measure my manhood
by moving on.
Well, Dad, I am sick and tired of moving on.
It's hard to sit back and watch all the pent-up hatred and morphs and guilt
in a way at my soul until I am nothing but a lifeless bag of bones
that doesn't deserve to walk this earth.
I am full of a fragmented man.
So lay me down to sleep, my darling.
Lay me down.
So lay me down to sleep, my darling.
Lay me down.
I can't handle this despondency much longer.
I feel my spirit withering away.
I feel like a tree whose leaves have floated astray,
never to be the bright, vivid, chromatic part of Genesis again.
Because hope's light has left my eyes.
The flame kindled within me was snuffed out.
I am no burning bush.
I am no pillar of rapid oxidation.
I am no sea splitter.
I am no abundant accommodator.
I am and always will be
a fragmented man.
My son.
My precious boy.
My darling sprout.
I am here with you.
I am here holding you.
I am here protecting you.
I am here being proud of you.
My name is Emmanuel.
Who told you these lies, huh?
Who made you cry?
Who decided that you couldn't see me anymore?
Hey, hey, I'm here.
I've always been here.
Feel my hand against your cheek.
Feel my heart beating with yours.
Feel the bloodstained holes in my wrists.
See my robe stained in scarlet.
See my side pierced to the heart.
See my tears streaming down my face.
I have grown for you.
I have wept for you.
I have held my arms wide open for you.
Waiting for you to hug me back.
