The Storm

I am tired of being awake

But not yet tired enough to sleep

I have exhausted being alive

But am not ready to die

I may be depressed

It is not because off ill treatment

But rather because of the lack of

I have built myself up inside of my head

With no one there to tell me otherwise

I saw myself as indestructible

And to my self disappointment

I slowly realized I was not

Up on my pedestal I stood high

But the foundation of self worth

And of the pride in my pointless accomplishments

Soon began to crumble

And now a storm rages endlessly through my head

Tearing apart everything I know

Able to find its only home in these dark notebook pages

So to my emptiness I came recluse

Unable to find my way out of this everlasting maze

With walls made of wretched self-loathing

And air full of inescapable doubt

Am I worthy to take in this oxygen?

Or is there someone better suited than I

Who should be breathing this instead?

Better suited than me to live?

I am a stain

I am a worthless scratch 

On the pristine beauty that life is supposed to be

Clouding the wonder that is creation

With my unworthiness to exist

And now a storm rages endlessly through my head

Tearing apart everything I know

Able to find its only home in these dark notebook pages