Plague of Mind

I often wonder the purpose of life
I question the purpose of myself.
Some days I feel hopeless,
helpless.
Like no matter what I do
doesn't mean a thing.
What do I do?
When am I ever right.
What's wrong with me.
Sometimes it's not enough
to know life.
You have to live it.

I constantly feel I'm drowning
in a sea of wastefulness.
I'll never be saved.
Give me something to
believe in.
A reason.
Absolution.

What's the point of time.
When I look out into the light of day
it escapes me.
Never coming back.

I hate this feeling.
The feeling I'm getting
while trying to write.

Is it me?
I'm not sure any more.
It's hard to differentiate
reality to not.
Lots of times I feel programmed
I mean with routine.

Moving on scares me
As does change.
People make me nervous.
My father makes me nervous.
Hard to hear a silent time-bomb.
I miss my mum.
Days pass and I'm left
wondering, 'did I do the
right thing?'
I did what I had to.
I fee insane writing like
this.
It flows so easily. Like a
river or stream.
Going on and on.
Do I feel better now?
No.

I question the purpose of myself.
Some days I feel hopeless,
helpless.