Real Time (standard:poetry, 593 words)
Author: Leonard Becker	Added: Dec 16 2000	Views/Reads: 3264/1894	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A rant about a man at the depth of depression and loneliness

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


My brother with no goal or inspirations to reach his goals, 

And my mother no cause to fulfill her life. 

...and so we beat on 

boats against the aimless fucking current 

borne back into the cruel, spiteful past. 

And I say this without arrogance---truly. 

I really feel like I should BE SOMETHING! 

I have things to say---THINGS TO BE! 

Deep down, I just want to be the guy that people want to 

TALK TO 

FAWN OVER 

THINK ABOUT FUCKING! 

I shouldn’t have to fight for the things I want--- 

Barter for my dreams---scream for attention! 

I should not have to write foolish prose to get attention 

(Which no one appreciates anyway---and I never get what I want) 

SHOULDN’T HAVE TO FIGHT FOR LOVE! 

And that brings me to my essential point--- 

I don’t feel loved. 

I know it’s there, 

But what good is it if I can’t feel it? 

I don’t feel like I fit in this world, 

Like I have a point. 

I’m not real-time--- I’m not happening. 

Oh, to be a martyr! 

Or at least a mental retard---dead to the world, 

Not aware of the fact that I’m drowning, 

In a sea of better people, 

Surrounded by love I can’t have 

And love I don’t want. 

And the mistakes I’ve made 

And the things I can’t buy. 

I KNOW NOW WHY PEOPLE WANT TO DIE! 

To fantasize about death or kill themselves. 

I won’t do it, I’m too lazy, 

But I understand. 

I understand what it’s like to look over a bridge, 

And wonder what would happen if I jumped? 

Would she love me then? 

Or at least realize what she didn’t take? 

AND I UNDERSTAND--- 

What it’s like to wish a tumor on your brain. 

And wither 

And die 

But hear good things you didn’t know. 

Would she love me then? 

Or would she at least pretend? 

That would be better than this... 

Fuck her and all of them! 

I’m too confused to care, 

And too tired to cry. 

And I don’t where I’m going! 

And I don’t how to finish anything, 

My life or this poem. 

I’m sorry it wasn’t better. 


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