The Jaded Misanthrope

There are days when I wake up and I don’t want to look in the mirror, for fear of what I might see.

Will a soulless monstrosity or another pitiful excuse look back at me?

I walk down the street and people greet me, but I know they don’t care.

They walk past with empty stares. Or they might turn to give a quick glare.

I’m tired of this stingy reality and this cold delusion.

What’s the point of caring in this world of seclusion? Hope is an illusion.

I hope that my hard work would pay off. All I want is a day off.

The pressure is too much and I can’t cope. Please, I want to believe in hope.

Then I realize I’m just THE JADED MISANTHROPE.

I’ll be destined to walk a thin tan line. Every relationship is another land mine.

I’m socially-challenged. I’m temperamentally unbalanced. I’m unstable, mentally.

I introduce myself knowing you will hate me eventually.

Friendships survive temporarily. That’s why I don’t even bother with congeniality.

My friends fade like a mental patient’s grasp of reality.  

I can’t handle the pain of another loss.  

I can’t handle the pain of carrying another’s cross.

And I withdraw to hide my rage. If I don’t I throw it at everyone in range.

Am I forced to be this way? I start to wonder why I can’t change.

Then I realize I’m just THE JADED MISANTHROPE. And this is the fruit I reap.

I’m destined to be the black sheep. I’m just another creep.  

I run from promises I can’t keep. I flee when tensions amount.

I’ve let people down so many times I’ve lost count.

A burning feeling is consuming my heart. Save me before I tear myself apart.

Conflicted at my very core, I don’t even feel pain anymore.

I don’t even know why I still feel anymore. People are so unreliable.

They only tell you what’s desirable. Honesty is a forgotten policy.     

Truth is an arrogant ideal hiding behind a façade called modesty.

Believe what you want, it doesn’t matter. Reality can be easily shattered.

Apparently a really good lie is all that’s needed to sustain a dying man.  

That’s why I refuse to swallow whatever pills the doctor puts in my hand.

We all have a choice. Or do we really? Free will is probably the biggest farce.

Why do we flaunt our independence when options are sparse?

To choose our destiny is not the same as choosing what to have for breakfast in the morning.

We are only given a certain amount of time and space to do something with our lives and yet we are still so darned boring.

Please simplify the details. I’m tired of riding someone else’s coattails. Forget the rhyming, the coherence and cadence. I don’t even know who I’m even writing to. Where is my grand audience? Yeah, I talk to myself. I know all good things come to an end. I know “this too shall pass.” And yeah, I know life isn’t fair. I don’t want to follow a confused crowd walking to their deaths in a firing line. I drive in the same potholes every single day and think nothing of it. No anger? No frustration? No sensation at all? This society has already killed me. I’m sick of unloading my tears and prayers onto this absent parent I call “God.” I’m sick of trying to impress these automatons I call my brothers in humanity. I don’t want to be liked, I don’t want to be noticed, and I don’t want to waste my time with face-saving, half-hearted, bold-faced interactions. Life’s too short. I certainly don’t want to be normal (however it is you define normal). I start to wonder if I’m depressed or disturbed.

Then I realize I’m just TJM: THE JADED MISANTHROPE. 

 

 

Written by Thorne Jameson McFarlane, a.k.a Fatal Dawn, a.k.a "The Jaded Misanthrope"

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