There are two kinds of waiting:
Hopeful and hopeless.
Hopelessness is weary angst,
Violent eddies of despair.
Nervous pacing while staring
The mind battling the heart.
Hopefulness is jubilant,
Spontaneous leaps of joy.
Nervous tapping of your feet
Ready to meet life head on.
There are two kinds of waiting:
Hopeless and hopeful.  
But neither prevents waiting.

By the light of the waning moon
Sat I once again to soon
I would see the light of dawn
Leaking through the tattered clouds

A heart asunder with tears unshed
For its to that quiet place
My dark twisted thoughts have fled
Dark. Self loathing. Destructive threads

Branching out to strangle my soul
To plunder what's left of joy
To tear apart any remnant of a smile
For once I've walked more than a mile

The journey must end. Dissipate
Into the nothingness that is this path
To the unknown unspoken blackness
That is now the dark hole I've dug

Blackness, bile, foul stench of you
Invading my nostrils, choking, smothering
Cutting off much needed breaths
I gasp, struggle, grabbing, reaching

The only thing to greet these empty
Clawing hands, nothing, a void so vast
Left grasping, clutching, fingers clenching
Gasping, panic, closed in, blocked

Breath fading, sight blocked, sounds too loud
A void, vast,infinitesimal. To much
Release me, free me, let me go
Reeling, falling, down, down

Leading to who knows where
This constant descent
Speeding up, shooting through
Each desperate limb needing solid
Hand hold or foot found

Nothing, nothing making sense
Air becoming less and less dense
Darkness. Constant companion why are you always there
Hide me. Conceal me in your embrace

Remove from me doubt. Rip asunder
From deep within in this dark twisted soul
The remains of what chokes, smothers
Kills.....

i want to tell you.
i really do.
i'd love to spill my secrets, my issues to you.
yet i can't comprehend it.
i can't communicate it to you.
and the fact you could leave me.
it makes my heart a tearful blue.
you already look at me as if i'm broken.
what do i have to lose?
i want to tell you.
i really do.
yet i can't cope with the fact.
the fact your presence may fade.
vanish without a trace.
except you'd still have that key.
the key that can unlock the darkness in my brain.

The real subjectivity of life is overwhelming;
Prospective consumes our frontal cortex
But there is no escape from this vacuum seal.
We see the faces of our own delight,
The know how of the here and now,
But we are too blind to look past our own perspectives.
Even when we fathom the hearts of others,
Our understandings are predisposed  to our own Identity.
Objectivity is a fleeting notion of reality, of truth
and its as though the ground we hold so dearly
Is constantly fleeing from our grasp.
Today we call this individualism,
a disconnect between one's self and society.
But I so selfishly and foolishly believe
that this chasm stems from being lied to so often.
Am I lying to myself or am I being lied to I do no know,
but it is important to understand that it does not matter
that nothing matters, because everything exists in my field of view.
The only question remains: am I correct
Or has the devil made me a fool?
But  this does not confirm nihilism
only hints at its initial potential.
Yet there are common truths that are irrefutable
no matter who you are, real or not:
The reality is the here and now,
No matter what ghosts or demons there may be.
They affect the consciousness constantly
indifferently to whether or not they are fraudulent or true.
And my experiences are true, the emotions are radical,
and even if everyone I know is a figment and interpretation,
they still hold a grasp onto my withering heart.

Dear friend,

It has been a few months since I wrote to you;
I can sincerely say that I didn’t miss you;
Seeing the current situation, I assume that you did
miss me quite a bit--we are intertwined, for eternity;
You were there before I was born, and you’ll be there
when I am to no longer be,
and you would've held my hand every step of the way.
I’m a tortured soul; I’m not happy, nor will I ever be:
It’s not a sad thought, for happiness is overrated;
It’s just a matter of life: the sun rises and falls,
We live and die, I want to die. Oh my dear,
how I missed writing these letters;
It’s not pain that gives me the courage to write every time,
but the lack of hope--
I don’t think it’ll get better;
I’ll find myself entangles in fear and hopelessness
for centuries to come;
I’m in love with you, I think;
We have an affair--
You’re the ***** little secret that I hide in every cut on my arm;
You are what wakes me up in the middle of the night,
whispering swiftly about how much you love
and want me with you;
I hear your prayers, my love:
I’ll soon be joining you,
but please, don’t rush the process,
Let me live for a few more years;
Let me feel the taste of happiness for some time
Before you crudely strip it away;
Then we’ll kiss, and I’ll be yours forever.

I’ll write to you soon enough,
so please don’t visit me for the time being;
I know you won’t follow my commands, so why do I bother?
Hopeful thinking, I guess--
Actually, I have one more favor to ask of you:
Leave him alone; Let him live and love and die
As a boring, happy person would;
Take away anything you want from me:
my skin, my blood, my tongue,
Just get away from him;
Don’t put your filthy fingers close to him:
Do it to me--
I’m used to your touch, I might even like it.

Love and utmost appreciation,
A

P.S. I’ll write to you soon,
So beware of the ceaselessly arriving letters.