Dont Look Back In Anger
dont look back in anger
Don’t look back in anger they say, but I’ll look back in rage. I can never let things go without a fight, you can say I beat a dead horse until it’s back to life. Knowing deep down I can’t go back no matter how hard I fight fuels me with an indescribable amount of fury, bashing the door psychotically pleading to let me go back in time.
In the moment it’s euphoric, it feels like forever swearing that change will never happen to me things will stay the same forever. Even when I know there’s a deadline. Even when I know there’s a return flight.
Don’t look back in anger, can I look back in delusion? Live with my eyes closed so I can pretend nothing has changed, just live inside my memory. My neck is so tired from looking back in hindsight, please let this door open, please let me go back. How can I not be angry when I’m haunted by ghosts of people that are still alive, there’s a cinema behind my eyes replaying their faces, replaying my memories.
Time you are a cruel, cruel person for never allowing us to go back, I always find myself sobbing at your feet like a toddler. But you’re not a mother and you won’t comfort me. So the ache sits in my stomach, I’m so angry.
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Pea Soupy Fog on St. Patrick's Day. 6:50 to 7:05 am. 51° F, with light rain. March 17, 2025. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT (@dkct25)
I don’t know how long I can continue this pathetic life. My one and only vice is gone and now I’m all alone. Melancholy, No one has come up with an easy solution for it. This in turn fuels my desire to give up. My desire to stop trying to be happy and end it.
I was once again threatened with death by another… a figure that was supposed to love me unconditionally but instead hates me and wants me dead. I hate myself and wish I had the strength to kill myself. This act of living becomes increasingly embarrassing and exhausting. It’s so pathetic.
All I can do to stay alive is saw through my skin and listen to dreadful tunes
I feel, so tired.
Ive always thought that j was content with my socail circle. Ive a lot of acquaintances and everyone knows my name. Adults consider me charming and im more than often invited out.
Still i have no one.
Say prehaps a book that is covered in emerald green flowers lays ahead of you. Its pages bent and the spine of it ceased. This book has been pages through a few times but its beauty is retained. You would look at this book and understand that it is not a quick read merely by its thickness. Tis only when you open the book would you realise that its writting is miniature, almost requiring a magnifying glass.
Although this novel is garenteed to interest and change your life, the minor inconveniences make you flee. Leaving the book to be engulfed by ratchet vines that suffocate it.
To make the outside of the book would be the solution to making this novel more captivating. This belief in itself opposes the notion that media presents.
I am not good enough… for i can be better, as toxic as it is, it seems to be a solution nonetheless
Just as he is dead to me, i am to him. His stubbornness has buried our love.
walking on pain. kodachrome.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
If you'd like, check my other works here:
the page
pushed to the margins
abandoned with blue strips
forced against red lines that corner me
once white, now scribbled on carelessly
in deep black ink that smudges me
dents through all of me
find me a way to erase
to start again and hope to be apprepiated
that i can be the writer and not the page
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