Lets not **** around anymore; you feel pain.
You have to learn to be alone.
You're weak.
It takes practice.

I've invested a lot of time in trying to make an us
out of a me. I am so very empty.
After a year, I'm still a stranger in your home.
You distance yourself, and next
yeah you'll run.

I ******* see it.
Future? Me?
Nobody stays for this.
Nobody wants this.
Mood swings, erratic behavior,
late nights, crying, crying,
thoughts of suicide,
dependency,
nobody
wants
this.

Nobody wants me.

Two days ago you broke down at 12am
in the aisles of the supermarket, crying.
Swore every set of headlights that danced
by you was another set of eyes to
see you through to nothing.

Spent the next night awake and laughing,
quiet as a mouse,
except the repetitive cackle
and spite for all things.
You lost your mind.
You're scared kid.

Scared of losing.
Tired of losing.
Always braced for losing,
too stiff to just take the next step.
Haunted by your own shadow.

Nobody wants an insane person.
A walking corpse.
A MANIC.
A ****-up.
A dead-beat.

Austin Heath.
They come looking for you sometimes,
but the reality is so much more terrible.
The reality is so much less than mediocre.
No one cares.

Yes, I believe in love,
and I feel stupid and small and pathetic, often.
I'm tired of laughing it off, but it's in every song,
and every song takes that sensation of
self loathing and makes it permanent.
Not something tangible to dispose of.
I can't even cry myself to sleep.
I'm worse than depressed,
I'm never happy.

It is winter inside my home.
I lay under a black cloud, starved,
naked, half-cocked to explode,
basking in the white rays of
computer light,
alone.

I am an islander.

I try to reach you.
All I want is you.
You whisper my desperate wrists
away from yourself and escape me.
I am a necromancer; My corpse is
Alive
among the living;
I am a ghost. I am seven dollars spent
on B-vitamins, and a well-pitied man.

I cut deep into my own mind with
words that sink blue, like the stem of
thyme sings through my gums and
stays until the next morning,
I am crying in the bathroom at work,
I am listening to my mother go insane,
I am crying all day,
all day in bed,
running

back and forth, back and forth,
heart beats like;
doki-doki-doki-dokidokd...
I am a comedian laughing till his own demise,
trying to finish the punchline but

I am an islander.

You don't get back to me.
You don't make time for me.
You're not here for me,
I ask you to just tell me why you love me,
and you
tell me annoyed,
it's time for sleep.

It's always time fo

I am an Islander.

I cry so much these days. I cry cry cry,
and I promise I'll get better, I'll be happy,
I promise, just get back to me, okay?
I'm so sick of crying. I promise.
I can smile see?
The sun is out, but
it's ******* winter,

it's always ******* winter,
and I can't
I don't

I am an islander.
I am an islander.
I am an islander.
I am an islander.

I'm alone.

The train screams and you twitch your fingers
consciously, yet still nervously,
you're thinking about the first time you attempted,
and it's vivid and terrifying,
like dreams of falling that last one second,
but strung together for about five minutes.
You breathe irregularly.
You think about how most people can't read your handwriting.
You write a masterpiece on the pillow,
right next to her head. Hope that she sleeps better than you,
with sweet thoughts she easily forgets,
and the bass of that train rocks the
boulder in your stomach.
You shift your feet, your legs, your body, close your eyes,
exhale,
and pretend you are completely still,
but subconsciously those fingers are twitching,
until the feeling is gone.

Nobody has time for me, I wanna cry so bad
but I'm afraid if anybody hears me  sobbing
I'll get harder on myself even though last night
I wanted to ******* but my body wanted to call it quits,
but my mind was so awake I didn't sleep for a single second.
Or maybe I did.
I keep thinking about how
I never know when I'll see you next.
It's like I tried so hard to just be ******* miserable,
I bought a notebook, but locked myself out,
so I yelled at it for twenty minutes or so;

"WHAT THE **** WAS I SUPPOSED TO BE?
THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"
This music thing was supposed to be my dream,
and Austin you're gonna go places, or get everything you want,
my mother says we'll make millions off of all my ****** songs,
as soon as I'm on the radio,
but who the **** listens to the radio?
People counted on me to be someone,
like I'm ******* somebody whose supposed to be somebody.
I've ******* ruined people for you.
I've done things I still can't live with,
and most of them started with a pen.
I'm supposed to love music, these songs were supposed to
take the sadness out of my head and make it tangible,
but instead it made them permanent.
So everyone else gets to be saved by music,
but I get to destroy myself with it.

My head gets so ******* loud at night.
Everything is in caps lock.
I stay up for days on end
until the feeling is gone.

A cardboard box to place all your hearts into.
Squander the pretty things.
Cut everything into small shapes and pray
for grey clouds, rain clouds, secondhand smoke.
Something has to be destroyed again.
It is a season not for harvest,
but to gaze at something empty, cold,
and left in waste, helpless.

The side of the head collapses inward.
Bone snaps and the breath is so short
it would make you wonder if it happened at all.
It would amaze you how you have hurt others.
Like a pyramid in selfishness;
the Niagara Falls made in barbed wire
and infested with small biting insects.

You had to teach yourself, and it wasn't hard.
You taught yourself how to hate, but more so;
How to hate everything you know, to-
find flaw?- in everything you hold close to-
Hallelujah.
Angels with eyes eyes sewn shut, monsters,
monsters with white wings, feathered.

Flying. ****, I want more dreams of flying,
or even another dream of falling.
Always awake. Circles nourished by your
happiness are well fed under your eyes.
You are not.
You are not
falling or flying,
&
never in my life have they felt so similar.
So much the same.

"I don't know if you're going to read this or not but, looks like you used your Bandcamp profile recently.......and I've been thinking......your a ***** .....and I never got the chance to tell you. You can ******* off thats fine, its been a couple years and you just completely wrote me off. I understand you may have wrote other people off because they did you wrong, but you wrote me off on judgment alone. I did you no wrong! You deemed me unworthy of your company as if you are somehow the dictator of all social interaction, because you didn't agree with decisions I made about my life. **** move....you could have at least had the decency to say, "Hey, I don't want to hang out with you anymore.....or even speak to you for that matter." It would have ******..... but it wouldn't have been a **** move. plastic blood indeed"




You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting in my lifetime.
I was a ******* kid back when I knew you man, **** I still am in a lot of ways. The truth is that my father got really upset when he found out you were smoking **** with me in the car and guilted me into not making music with you, and being a stupid kid I handled it as well as I handled everything else. After that it just seemed awkward to try to say hi. I'd figured you either hate me or move on, and either way we both probably had lives to get to.
I'm living in Cleveland now, been here for three years since my father kicked me out after we got into an argument. It ain't bad. For the most part though, I've kind of quit on music. I make a CD here and there and record a song, but I'm just really tired of trying to impress people.
Nah, I still think you're one of the coolest people on the planet, and I did make a **** move, and wasn't even the last in a string of **** moves I'd have done to a lot of people, and I did do to many.
I'm sorry. You made me a better musician, and person, even just by knowing you, and you deserved better than that.

Laughing my *** off because Louis Keys called me a ***** today,
Austin Heath.

Fingers stained black.
Careless.
Spine bent like the railing
after the crash. Bent hard.

You're not even solid ground.
You're a whisper in the air.
Everything that
vibrates
has a pitch.

Everybody's muse.
Everyone's *******.
Plastic-like.
Flimsy.

All the switches
are off.