h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Happiness is just a word to me
And it might have meant a thing or two
If I'd known the difference
Emptiness, a lonely parody
And my life, another smoking gun
A sign of my indifference

Always keeping safe inside
Where no one ever had a chance
To penetrate a break in

Let me tell you some have tried
But I would slam the door so tight
That they could never get in

Kept my cool under a lock and key
And I never shed a tear
Another sign of my condition

Fear of love or bitter vanity
That kept me on the run
The main events of my confession

I kept a chain upon my door
That would shake the shame of Cain
Into a blind submission

The burning ghost without a name
Was still calling all the same
But I just wouldn't listen

The longer I'd stall
The further I'd crawl
The further I'd crawl
The harder I'd fall
I was crawlin' into the fire

The more that I saw
The further I'd fall
The further I'd fall
The lower I'd crawl
I kept fallin' into the fire
Into the fire
Into the fire

Suddenly it occurred to me
The reason for the run and hide
Had totaled my existence

Everything left on the other side
Could never be much worse than this
But could I go the distance

I faced the door and all my shame
Tearin' off each piece of chain
Until they all were broken

But no matter how I tried
The other side was locked so tight
That door it wouldn't open

Gave it all that I got
And started to knock
Shouted for someone
To open the lock
I just gotta get through the door

And the more that I knocked
The hotter I got
The hotter I got
The harder I'd knock
I just gotta break through the door

Gotta knock a little harder
Break through the door

I prefer banging my head into the door myself, simply because it saves me all that pain in my hands, but oh well, to each his own.

*falls over* But... it's a metaphor...

( You psychopath. *gives him a noogie*)

I was wondering if you would like me to send you some of my more dpressing work. It is depressing, but it is very good, interested?

I'd like to read it. Go for it. Send it my way.

Already did, but you know that.

Here is another depressing piece of literature, know that I don't necessesary mean everything I write, but still, to write for art's own sake is important.

I do not like failure.
I cannot accept, failure.
Failure is contradictory to my nature.
The possibility and opportunity for success can’t exist. . . .
Without the possibility of failure.
As a person’s success increases, so does the marginal possibility. . . .
for, failure. . . .
I am afraid to fail. . . .
very afraid, to fail. . . .
very afraid.
My desire to succeed remains, I still continue to make progress.
But I cannot share my success,
or share myself with another person,
because of being afraid of failure.
Failure.
The word condemns.
Once I was a true student, eager to learn and know.
I wanted to read every book ever written.
Know all there is to know, and proclaim it, wanting to share it with others.
To share only to feel happy about myself, without wanting or arrogance.
I still draw closer to reading every book ever written.
But no other person would know it.
I sit in isolation, secure.
Secure that no once could see failure in there.
I remain quiet and polite, set in my way of doing things.
I am a mystery to many people, but they lose interest,
because they see in me no sign of a living human being.
So they see me, a silent person, a ghost, or undetected presence.
They see me as clueless puzzle, which they have never seen fail.
Through all my study, I have my doubts.
Questions I am unable to answer.
Over and over I ask myself,
sometimes tears comes to my eyes,
with no one there to see them,
“Am”
the crying makes no sound, sobbing breathing very soft.
“I”
the mention of myself in a word brings surprising anger. . . .
“A”
the word barely comes, as I fear the next one coming.
“Failure”
I cannot find an answer to this very painful question.
Though I wonder if it matters in my situation.
Whether I am a, failure. . . . .
something I still do not know.
no other person shall ever know what I think
what I want
what I like
what I hope
Because of this personal failure.
In this the greatest hope or reassurance. . . .
is that there is no hope, and my life will remain the same.
Let it be remembered that no one else is there to blame.
I will choose to eventually go to sereneness and tranquility,
that requires no more pain, that myself should then endure.
My death and exit from this world will be my responsibility.
And then to be sure, I and all will know, I am a quiet human failure.

...You say that you didn't mean this. And I accept this. But mind you that I also bear in mind that a great many people write what they know. Case in point:

...and somehow I managed to send that before I could write my poem. Ah well, here it is anyway.

Sundays seem very empty
and I can't say
why this might be
except for the fact that I miss you
and I can't seem to find my way
reguardless of how hard I try
though seems an endless downward spiral
which only seems to darken the situation
and I can't be bothered with trifles

so i act
a bookish cynic to some
a vagrant rocker to others
but someonewhere in there I swim
in the far reaches of my conciousness
barely aware of the play that
flits and flickers in front of my eyes
in the form of a tired dragon
lying in wait

can't seem to find the time to be myself
and I have to walk on ice at home
isn't as if I have a haven there or ever will
so we go back to your house
where everything is white and vanilla
and all I have to do is
crawl onto your couch
and give myself up to sleep
while you brush my hair out of my face

so I dream
of bright green fields and forrests
of oceans and of brine
and someonewhere in there I wander
in the farspread reaches of my conciousness
dimply aware of the imaginary cinema that
flits and flickers in front of my eyes
barely out of reach
but no more than an illusion