It's the way things are.

Couldn't let it go.
Anyone else is paltry.
No one is enough.
Tomorrow will be the same.

Stay one more night,
'till dawn at least.
Only once the sun comes I
pray you'll actually leave.

Iterative of
my entire life.

There's barely any
haught to be had.
Instead of wondering,
now I'm dreaming, but
knowing would be ideal.
Instead of merely living,
no, instead of dying,
give me a reason to thrive.

All is gone
by the time I walk
outside.
Usually I can still find
the meaning.

You.

I ran out
I'm empty
look somewhere else maybe
maybe you'll find something
worth your time but
not here
that's for sure
because I'm all out
and got nothing left.

If you want nothing though,
you're in the right place.
Nothing is what I've got.
I've got nothing for you,
for me,
for everyone.
Heaping piles of nothing,
glimmering, shimmering piles
tightly coiled and
slightly steaming and
reaching up to the sky
of nothing.
Glorious, fat, gluttonous servings
of nothing. That's what I'm handing out
because that's all I've ******* got, okay?

You get it? Do you?

Do you really understand yet?

DO YOU?

I HAVE NOTHING, READ ON ELSEWHERE.
I'M NOT HERE FOR YOU,
I'VE NOTHING IN STORE.







Maybe a joke or two but,
other than that? NO.

NOTHING
NO THING

The sun don't quit trying,
despite the duvet of morning fog
and the moon won't stop crying
over the sad songs of summer frogs.

In the blink of an eye
it's all over and
there's always more sky
with cloud cover and
we'll all be shivering
having shed last year's winter coats.

Howls in the dark fly
at us like beach sand
caught in the windy cry
of something once planned,
and time keeps on withering
turning puddles into castle moats.

The days don't quit flying,
despite our reluctance to step in the bog.
The nights won't stop, forever dying,
they keep turning on and on like a cog.

Bro, no lie
I've taken like
six or seven
***** today.

*******, not good ones either.
Like a hot faucet,
I sit down and
goosebumps ripple
up and down my arms
as the shivers hit me
and my body just...

Like a
hot faucet bro,
like I'm vomiting
out of my *******.


Where do you think I'm writing this from?
You know it,
my porcelain throne.

Laughter still rings
in the empty glasses
scattered across the counter.
A bird sings in the sun,
through the open window
there's hope.

Outside looks charming,
intoxicatingly inviting.
A breeze, a babbling brook,
chipmunks scurry through
last year's fallen leaves.

But here, inside these walls
the laughter still echoes
and echoes and echoes
like ghosts of jokes told.
Like sand on the sheets,
grating, but a reminder
of what once was great.