Untitled 18

i wonder often what is the purpose... of life, of love, of so many different things... they keep crawling like spiders in my head they keep coming without a sense of retribution i felt insane amidst the beat in my head i am alone often in the jungle of clairaudience... sensing things, hearing sounds that lingers... i wish there was silence to condole my grievances, but silence is my haunter i could not run from i dwell in a room i call escapism, for there are so many things i could not understand why do i live in solitude? why do i run? why so many suffer in a flick of a dime? why does God permit wickedness throughout? why i ... why do i live to die? sometimes i sit in a corner like a scared brat incapable to love yet always trying hard to die without a bit of purpose; my incubus to live without a pinch of sense; my succubus am i just a machine that God plays?... or a mud of clay that grimes astray? i know many live just like me for some reason we are pointless smokes... to live to die... i don?t know why... for i am lost in this world of lie...