Dust


What is the goddamn point? Of being here, on this Earth,
living an empty life, with an empty heart.
It's funny that I call my heart empty when in actuality,
my heart became too big for its own sake.
It exploded under the pressure, into a million pieces,
and it took my will to live with it.
And now here I am again. But this time it's my mind -
my life - under pressure.
And I don't know how much more I can take
before my life shatters too.
Wouldn't it be so much easier to be amongst the dust
rather than to be alive but to feel about as worthy as
the dust below me anyways?
Maybe if I become part of the dust, I could finally
blow away and disappear.

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