On the border of madness

So what's my problem?
Well, it's an old one.
There are two things that always send me running for the knives
Concocting novel and pain-free ways to destroy myself
And those two things are encoded so deeply,
Entrenched so completely
That I wouldn't know how to undo them
Even if I thought that I could.

So cut to the chase, woman.
The first is easy.
The first is guilt.
The first is feeling that all I do is hurt people.
Mostly good people.
People that don't deserve to be dragged along under this wreck for blocks and blocks Scraped by pavement along the way.
This concept of being no good and not worthy of life is easily traced
The supreme parenting skills to which I was subjected
Did a fantastic job of drilling into me at a very young age
Concepts in the realm of being unwanted,
Should have been aborted,
Ruined my mother's life,
Bad bratty child from a poor gene pool, etc etc.
My personal favourite however
Were the arguments and efforts put forward
By a certain special parental figure
That I should kill myself for the betterment of those I cared about
And that if I was less selfish, I would do so.
Is it any wonder I end up here time and again?
So the first is guilt.

The second ties easily to the first.
The second is that which I find myself particularly troubled by at present
The second is purpose,
Or a lack thereof.
I dug myself out of a multitude of dark holes
Many many many times over the years
By forcing myself to believe
To believe that there was a purpose
A reason to keep marching
And that that reason would find me
Or that I would hunt it down
For a time I thought I knew it
Before cowardice grew in and around my heart
Like vines
Squeezing out any such dreams and ideations
Until now I wander aimlessly
Jumping at my own shadow

I appreciate that for most people
Having a job they don't mind
Working towards a new car
A bigger house
A cottage on the water
Is enough.
Is the purpose.
But it's just not for me.
I really can't bring myself to care
Which isn't to say that I don't try.
But it doesn't work.
I need something different
A greater purpose beyond consumerism
And it's lost to me at present

Often and foolishly
I look to others
To give me a reason
To get up everyday
To keep breathing
And every time it fails
Because it needs to come from me
And what I do
Trying to find life in other people
Is only co-dependency in a nice neat package of pathetic

So I'm here floating in a sea of despondency
Purposeless
Directionless
A disappointment to myself
And all those past me dreams that pass by ungrasped

Maybe I'm only capable of talking the talk
And if so, then why bother?
I just don't see the point.
I can't even fucking write.