My bloodied broken knuckles stained the sheets. The wall peppered with the damp red marks I left behind. No amount of pain can mask my frustration. No amount of false comfort can calm the anger. While what was meant to be done was supposed to be a symbol of hope, all that I feel is the dark ugliness that humanity has to offer.
Why? Why must always come down to being overlooked and ignored? What do other have that gets them farther than me? I work as hard to. I do everything beyond what I even know to get things done. Yet things don’t seem complete. People always turn a blind eye.
Is there no more courtesy left in this world? When people have time left to blog. Why don’t they have time left to respond to a simple email. It’s bad enough to left in silence. It’s far worse to be left hanging at the hope that there is a yes. The rejection I can handle. I have been rejected by individuals, by niches and by communities all my life. Being left out is the way it has always been for me. At least in that, I can brick up that bleeding heart, protecting myself from the pain of solitude and then focus on other ways to get the job done. Being left hanging in hope, left in the open and exposed to the elements and watching everyone pass me by. That’s just cruel.
If ever there was a reason to want to watch the world burn, it would be from the fire of this anger, frustration and desperation. My optimism is there, but it is finite. There is only so much you can hold on to before breaking down and hating the very existence that surrounds you. It always seemed like your fault. You just never knew what it was. No one was there to offer you their hand to begin with. No one was there to show you the road in which you lost your way from.
My bloodied broken knuckles stain the sheets. Or at least, they would have, if I didn’t have better things to do tomorrow than wallow in my own self-loathing of a world that appears to have left me to fend for myself a long long time ago.