To anybody who would listen

Dear friend, I try to give everyday a chance to be more than the one proceeding her. But the night drags on into a melancholy green that illuminates a hospital room that I can't help but feel houses my true mind. Somewhere far from here being sung too a song from a distant year and a country that ceases to exist. My body is stuck here while my mind lies there far off from the people around me and the constant confrontation of my innermost brokenness. I exist in a gridlock of repeatability presented to the outside world while the empty monster sits inside afraid of what might come if she dared to show herself to the unforgiving mellow coolness of the world outside the guardgates. The depressed web of lies and false abandonment surround my ever drifting brain and engulf it in a blanket of blood that slowly drips from my body refusing to run. Unfortunately the only thing that dared to stay with me, a half complete human. If I could even be called such. I was nothing more than a flickering flame in the windowsill of a burning building. Who have I become? Empty, used, lost. Everyday distancing myself more and more from the fact of my own reflection. I don't recognize myself. Not by physicality nor action. I forget my sentences and my intentions midway through completion. My mind wanders past the evidence in front of me. I could never be loved because I do not exist. Affectionately signing poems and sonnets with a name that I can't seem to place in my quickly descending brain. It seems to lose itself amongst the rubble and the damage of the systematic tick of destruction that existed in what could loosely be described as me. I feel it slipping more and more in the present days. It's too far gone to retrieve and try to salvage the bubbling remains of. No one else could care, so why should I. I doubt these words will even be read by the lowest level of mankind. I've never belonged there, why should they care what I say? My words no longer hold weight. I have become the mad old man from children's storybooks. Existing only in whispers and rumors. Impossible to discern truths and pharasies in the chaotic rumbling of the deep black night. Don't believe I word I say, not even I believe them anymore. Insincerely, The love you left behind