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.

Throwing myself into wider oceans
with shallow waters,
throwing myself out,
seeing myself inside.
Distant to shelter.

I've seen too many people reach
so far ahead of themselves
they fall over.

I smothered my ambitions,
and I might pay for it, yeah
but then again I might just
save myself from
so much more.

Whats the matter with you,
little cloud,
heavy today
close to the earth
closer to us.

Closer to the same people
who will wax lyric about
violence
to the kids they're trying
to send to war.

Closer to the wolves.

Wherever you send the rain,
know it won't wash away
the sins of those
who believe in sin.

Drop your weight and
float somewhere
far from here.

Ever get the feeling that,
this. Things? We?
aren't even... I don't know the word.
They're not real? Valid?
These things are eventual.
Since no one cares;
I was stuck in a mirror,
or I was dragged into the real,
for just ******* ages.
This house breathes,
but it creaks like a ribcage
without the flesh attached.
Cobwebs in the corners.
Fresh.
I thought of setting myself on fire.
No, that's selfish. I have dreams.
I had dreams.
I don't know everything I guess,
but don't you feel it too?

Some people live with ordinary nightmares
on a daily basis and treat it like we treat
passing a beggar.

These days those who put their hands out have sharp teeth
and I'm proud enough of anyone
who'll bite any hand that feeds.

She's not a shy bird,
builds an army of the disillusioned.
Fleshy sacrifices. Don't hold back,
pull every trigger,
pull every pin,
drop every bomb,
swing every blunt object
in the house if you have to.
I'll be right here waiting.
This isn't new to me;
after you lose your name,
after you lose your pride,
and after you lose your purpose,
losing your body seems to be
in line on a continuity.
Seems trivial.
Easy.

Flies in Cleveland bulk up in windows
just like flies in Buffalo. Like flies anywhere
I imagine, except maybe Kansas.
It's been a long time, hasn't it?
Are any of us sorry?
I wouldn't say it first.
That's why this isn't an open letter.
****, listen;
There's a lot of things in this book
that aren't going to make a whole
lot of sense to any of you, but
they're still here and I mean them.
Every single ******* word.
It's not that I hate everyone,
it's just, well... ****.
You bulk up in my windows.
It'll be a longer time till
the next moment we don't speak.

I’m drowning.
Choking on this ocean...
but when I find air,
I suffocate on that too.

I'm sick of having what should be
a discussion on a serious topic
turn into,
"You're ridiculous for thinking
otherwise;
this is how it is."

And just like starlight,
it takes billions of years.
It shimmers, it fades.

Cosmic suffering,
rattling of constellations.
New shapes in the sky.

Small in their own lives,
but creating new cultures
in ******* for us.

Volumes of white lies,
tenser deafening quiet,
and bright like a star.

Built as mountains are,
dense as the passing of time;
gone when morning comes.

I wish I could get
baptized and wash all of the
**** out of my soul.

Don't mistake fire in eye for flame in heart,
iron in build for steel in mind,
wear for worthlessness
or shine for vitality.

I want to sleep in
a bed of sin and wake up
completely guilt free.

I dreamt that you died.
I awoke alone.

Also, I ******* hate rhyming poems.

We're all hacks,
but you especially.