the cycle repeats

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These words on the fake screen go to a server filled with electricity and circuitry created by giants of intellect and the summation of all of human existence.
I lay down listening to a girl sing melancholic songs of the lost of the home she shared with a lost love. Reminiscing in the past as the fingerpicked strings strike the stings of her heart. A warm love that was a man that cared for the moment and then left. Staining her sheet. Staining her soul. Poisoning it. She has to cut it out before it kills her.
I just want… I just to feel okay.
I want to feel loved.
The stress runs through out my tears.
The echos leave a silence.
Every song of longing is the same.
Slow, full of ache, and sorrow.
I’m old.
I shouldn’t be feeling these things.
I’m so far from feeling any type of love.
My therapist knows the ache within me I just some bullshit that is the lack of connection or love
I feel nothing.
The world will burn in a fire of quiet desperation.
Nothing here is beautiful.
Nothing here is worth your attention.
Yet you give it freely as the power of the planet fuels you and you will end up destroying the world or saving it or just as it has always been just continue to watch it burn.
There isn’t a damn thing I can give. Not anymore.