I'm trying to freeze myself.
In thought.
And become immortally relaxed.
In an understanding.
Why.
Is there any of this.
And me.
Just.
Broken

As I testify before God.
They are nothing but passing memories.
I forgot too soon.
To really get attached.
And, the images change.
The scenery recedes.
I find myself somewhere else.
Knowing, only.
That I'm always right here.
And you.
Just a rotating cast of people.
I don't need.

Was it love that brought me here.
With you.
Or was it just the idea I had.
That this.
Would be different.

I can't remember the sound of her voice.
Her touch.
Or anything we said to each other in confidence.
I don't remember her laugh.
Or the way she smelled.

But her face is etched.
Into my very being.

So much so that I wish.
I could just.
Forget.

Everyone dies
Their own death
And lives
Their own life.

The fantasy
You create
For mine,
Is delusional optimism.

I learned
To let go
When people's
Presence
Mattered to me.

Back when it hurt.

I learned to numb
My emotions
When my rage,
Exploded
My
Life.

The glimmer you
Had of who
You only thought
I was,
Is a you problem.

I can't even place your
Face.

Your
Electrical
Ghost is
Unknown.

Who are you to me?

Other than someone
I never see
Anymore.

You get obsessed
With other people
When the trauma
Rears it's
Intrusive thoughts.

I isolate.

I starve.

I control the twenty feet I can see.

Not all coping
Mechanisms
Are outbursts of
Passionate emotion.

No, never,
I intentionally killed
Them
All.

If I knew you
Where'd you go?

And, if I left you
There was probably a
Reason.

You left me alone
And with my own
Devices.

I found out
I didn't
Need you.

I don't
Need
Anyone.

The death of me doesn't
Even make me
Cry.

It's only natural
I think.

Love is a let down.

Fragility is weakness.

Shame,
Embarassment,
Desire,
Happiness,
Anxiety,
Decen­cy?

All burdens.

If anyone knows
The real me
It's probably
A projection
Or part of the
Poetry.

Words
Don't coalesce
Like they used to.
They dissolve into my
Petulant apathy-
Feelings of forgetfulness.
Ineloquent.

I'll etch these words onto my soul.
Embedding information on space time.
Til the black holes consume it.

I wish I was dead.
I wish I wasn't here.
I wish I wasn't breathing, thinking, seeing, feeling.
Anything other than hate, anger, and depression.

Dismal derided desolation.
Living low, down and out.
Merely getting through each day.
An eternal indictment of my distaste.

For.
Existing.

And, I take it personal.
That God won't let me die.

*******.
I didn't wanna exist.

Yet here I am.

Stuck with.
More unanswered prayers.

Love me.
Or something.
I don't really care.
And I never really did.
I just faked it cause.
I was told to.
I felt responsible.
For existing.

And, now.
I'd rather run away.
Motion keeps me moving.

It's not acceptable
To simply end.
I want to be erased.
From the book of life,
I want to be retroactively
Annihilated.

It is not sufficient to die.
It is only sound if I never.
Was.

Happiness.
Is just a
Delerium.
I feel as it washes over me.
When I'm too high on.
Magic mushrooms.
Or acid.

This stability of mine.
Is depressing
The doldrums of routine.
They keep me unfilled.

And,
oh I long.
For adventure that ends in ruin.

And,
oh I long.
For Dionysian ecstasy.

But.
That all lead to squander and squalor.
To trauma and decay.
That all lead to death.
Minutes away from the reaper.

So.
I keep at the Apollonian ordering of chaos and revel in the boredom of banal.
And I'm less inspired.

But well dressed.
But well fed.
But always high.

Maybe just maybe at the end of the dredgery I'll feel fullfilled.
Like all of this mattered.

But I'm a husk of an interesting person.
And the tumult of chaos and drifting.

Giving up.

Still natters at my mind.
Like my unfinished books.
Like my drug induced amnesia.

It all gets forgotten in my mundane days.
My necessity.

A rage that
Cannot be sated,
I project,
Across infinity
To those I hate.

Destruction.
Desolation.

I offer you annihilation.

For all your bravado,
Your narcissistic self obsession,
For your hyperbolic hubris,
And your greed for lust.

All of your social ostracization,
Your declarations of anathema,
For your cruelty,
For your envy and your wrath at those unlike you.

I sentence you all.
To the tumult and fear,
Of salvation.

An angry Armageddon.
A great cataclysm looms.
And, the messiah is glad.
It will all burn.

I don't write
For you,
Normal
Love obsessed
Average
People.

I write for the
Malcontent
Who could never
Really fit in.

The ones where
Life didn't get better,
It got worse.

Someone who
Can relate
To constant negativity.

And,
I find them,
I always find them.

We declare
A niggling doubt
That your positivity,
Is tenuous at best,
While we are consumed
By dark
Thoughts.

Traumatic
Life events.

A dismal dark
Alley way to be
Our bed.

Drugs
And
Violence.

Your problem
Is you wanna see a reflection
Of yourself in other people.

You are,
Entitled.

You are,
Fragile.

You are.
Annoying.

No one even asked
Your *******
Opinion
Or
Approval.

I am exclusive,
Rare,
And nothing
That's available
Or relatable.

Is valuable.

In these absentminded anxious anomalies.
Of thought.
I recede into self doubt.
Rampant overtly critical self destruction.
I am the hypnosis and torpor.
Of far too many drugs.
Far too early.

******* development.
Restricted ego.
And, the niggling doubt.
That I'm good at something.

These nervous neurotic moments are conscious.
An urge of self anihilation
Taboo words.
Forbidden ideas.
Mix with my suicidal ideations.
I am beyond the horizon of self doubt.
I fell into abnegation.

I think
I need some apathetic anti depressants.
To comfort me.
Get me through today.
So in tomorrow.
I can hope that a couple months from now.
Everything won't be so bad.

But that never happens.

I don't feel anything anymore.
Except.
Depression.
Except melancholic self reflection.

I used to care about something.
Now I just can't find the words.

And, I'm living in torpor.
Sleeping while awake.
A somnolent consciousness.

Existing.
Not living.

She loved me then.
When I was a potential.
A small seed in the mind's eye.
A possibility.

Yet I let her down.
I turned the greener grass a deeper shade of brown and wilted on a tree.

I'm now regret.
Frustration.
And nagging melancholy.
Twitching in the nightmare.

What's the point in this.
Self expression of miserable thoughts.
Tomorrow.
Is gone and now I recede into a never was.
Chasing delusions.
Running from life.
And maybe tomorrow.
It will get better.
And maybe tomorrow.
I'll be dead.

As though these sad songs mean anything other.
Than I'm back to being normal.
Depressed.
Listless.
And an utter.
Disappointment.

Up there in that distraction.
That unmedicated delirium.
I feel normal and curse the injustice.
When really.
All I am is bored.
And oh so severely.
Damaged.

With no self expression left.
But a blank stare and impulsive displays.
Of go away.
I don't want to human anymore.