Tomorrow comes.
Even when you.
Fail.
Repeatedly.
And.
Eventually.
Everything is forgotten.

I never wanted to grow up.
With aches and pains.
Poor posture.
An acrid abnormal hack.
Damaged nerves.
Deteriorating conditions.

Nah.
Not me.
I was expecting an exaggerated.
Night of narcotic negation.
Too many pills.
Too ******* bad.

Instead I became resilient.
A diamond ranting at the coal.
A piece of tin.
I just keep going.
Along with my mind.

Just one of those strange days.
Filled up with liminal time.
Feeling like.
Something good.
Might come my way.
Something positive.

I can make it through my life.
And the day.
Only if I'm properly.
Over medicated.
On these.
Chemical friends.
Of mine.

Now I recede.
Into my subconscious.
Floating in the narrative.
Of another insane dream.
Or the comatose.
Of deep sleep.

I find myself lost.
In that empty space I can't see.
Staring off into nothing.

My life is pathetic.

And I only long.

For some sweet and subtle.
Release from.
All this.

All the things I've never done.
Have just passed me by.
Nothing lost.
Nothing gained.
Just too high hopes.
Too many disappointments.
As long as I breathe.
I succeed at life.

I would rather be.
Some beautiful something.
That dies.
Fragile.
In some by and by.
Never known.
By anyone.
The hyperbolic tragedy.
That will be.
The rest.
Of my life.

I like to walk around at night.
When no one else.
Is out.

Sometimes I feel.
Like.
Self immolation.

An internal.
Explosion.

Destroying myself.

Things always hurt.
That shouldn't.
And I'm one severe something.
Away from regretting.
All my.
Bad decisions.

I don't remember ever having a future.
That went beyond how high can I get today.
With the poverty drawn in my ***** clothes.
On those lazy hazy sunny days I just wanted to stop.
I can't recall thinking past right now.

I wasn't supposed.
To live this long.
I was supposed to die in my own personal catastrophe.
My own holy explosion.
Found in the gutter.
Face down.

It was some subtle suicide.
That only my lucky friends managed.
To do.

There's never been anything out here.
Nothing but the barking of coyotes.
Grass green, moss painted rocks, and spear grass.
Crickets singing you to sleep.
In the abysmal doldrums.
In.
The heart of the prairie.

We just.
Die.
And in our death.
Fulfill our destiny
There's nothing out here.
Just dying slowly.
And.
Self immolation.

Now sets in the ennui.
Of falling asleep.
At odd hours.
Of the night.
Doing odd things.
Alone.

I haven't sighed through enough suicide notes.
Or lost the will to speak.
An alogia of a life.
Never murmured.
Low enough.

Instead of being abandoned.
Again.
I just leave.
Before anything starts.