I never really understood why
things were seen as "necessary"-
maybe I was born on the wrong day,
the one when the Universe got truly sad
or time was invented by a drunk madman
or it wasn't my time at all.
I despise the need to hang my day
on the dark limbs of this mechanical creature
no more real than the nightmares I've been having
since before I was born.
I'm angry with myself for not knowing how to feel,
for blaming my youth,
for misplacing my priorities.
I hate this gaping void,this overwhelming darkness
that feels not shame nor pain in making
my open eyes seem as if they'd been blinded
by a veil.
I wish I could just burn a history book.