I feel like I’m one dimensional
I feel like I’m the only one who sees how I see
I feel like the harder I try to be exceptional
The more flaws are pointed out to me
I’m scared of what’s ahead
I’m scared of what’s in store
I’m scared on my final night in bed
I’ll lay emotionally poor
What’s the point of living if not to be remembered?
What’s the point of living if you can’t be yourself?
There’s no point in living as a pretender
There’s no point in living just for wealth
What if there is nothing after we die?
What if it there is, but there’s evil in the sky?
How do we know we’re living at all?
How do we know we’re even conscious?
We think so large, yet we are so small.
This existentialism is obnoxious.