literature

Worthlessness

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Literature Text

You lay on the grass on the side of a hill next to the house. The house isn't important but the grass is. It's real grass that has dog shit in it at certain places. You know where to avoid it though so it's okay to walk around barefoot, even at night.
You're laying down on this grass; it's real grass for once, not that fake shit  that they call "grass" that they plot down in identical squares that you mow once a year. No this is the grass that you need to mow three times a week and tastes good if you actually desired to ingest a blade of grass. Your dogs do, and so do everyone else's dogs so you don't see why it's a bad idea. That aside you're laying in the grass in shorts and a short sleeve shirt. This means the grass pokes your naked skin. However it's not uncomfortable like the turf grass, so you don't mind at all.
You stare up at the sky, wishing it wasn't cloudy so that you could see the stars. Usually you're afraid to sit outside in the dark even with your dog. Today that's not the case. You're fine in the dark alone. Maybe it's because you have a pack of cigerettes and a lighter in your hand. If worse comes to worse you could totally set the bear on fire if it tries to eat you. A very comforting thought but it doesn't bother you because you can only think about dying and death and how easy it would be to let go.
Let go of the stress of life. Let go of everything that bothers you. There are no consequences. It's not like you believe that suicides get sent to hell and that's a big sense. It's not like you believe in anything really. Nothingness at it's best. You believe it's like that feeling of when you go to sleep. That time where nothing happens. You don't know that nothing is happening and you're barely existing. You think death is just like that except you never wake up and see that you're dead. You won't see your funeral, you won't know who cries, and you won't have to care about who it affects when you're gone. Like it'll affect anyone except your mom 'cause it's not like you really have true friends anyways. What happened to that best friend of yours for six years? She deserted you for a newer and better upgrade.
Which goes to prove the point that you're not good enough. Which leads to you to the reason why you're currently lying on your back smoking a cigerette that you know is probably going to cause you cancer some day but that day is too far away. This is the reason why you're listening to the frogs, crickets, train whatever that is the life of the night.
It's because you're not fucking good enough. How can you be  good enough for a relationship of love when you can't even be good enough to keep a best friend, or even obtain another best friend? How can you be good enough to exist even if you can't pass college, can't get a job, can't trust people, can't even exist with out bringing other people down. The more you look at your life and your situation the more you realize it's a lose lose situation.  
So you lay there on the damp grass at two am in the morning, listening to the sounds of the night. You think about how worthless you are, and how no one, not anyone could ever prove otherwise because you know it's a fact. Worthless worthless worthless worthless worthless is all that runs through your head.
That time you stood in the shower crying for half an hour but no one noticed you were gone, not even your other half. You could only scream silently through your tears that you were fucking worthless and you wished you could die.
The thoughts are getting worse as you inhale a puff of smoke and then let it curl out of your mouth like a lazy teenager reluctantly getting out of bed. You take another puff wishing you were smoking something else, drinking something, being somewhere else doing something stupid. You wished you weren't stuck in this dead end place and dead end family and dead end life. You wished you were worth something to some one, to anyone that seemed to care a little bit more than your average Joe.
You stand up and stamp out your dying cigarette with your bare feet. Sparks fly out and you stamp those down too. Not like it could start a fire in the damp, you already tried.
You head back into your house, into a room that really isn't your own. You lay and bed and go to sleep; the only way to keep the thoughts of worthlessness at bay.
I actually really enjoy writing in second person. If you don't like it fine don't read it.
This is for me not for you.
This will probably be in scraps
© 2011 - 2024 Pola-444
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