I used.
To love.

Things.
And.
People.

But.

I found out.
I didn't need them.

For anything.

I couldn't.

Do.
Myself.

I can't get up the energy.
To be interested in your lack.
Of a personality.

No.
I don't ****.
I just drift into rhythm.
And melody.

Wait to die.

Sleeping til six.

Optimism doesn't suit me.
As I exist.
As a mote of dust.
In some rundown.
Abandoned.
House.
The low glow of lamplight.
And classic rock.
Stuck in my personal.
Let down.

Sometimes you end up driving for hours.
Down grid roads.
Thinking about working away.
The problems.
Or maybe another hit of.
Speed.

I'm always depressed.
I'm always down.
And I get up.
Oh so very slowly.
On days like this.
When nothing is left over.
But hating myself

I want to sleep.
Through my.
Tomorrows.

Waking up in a yesterday.
That was never there.
Some kinda nostalgia.
I have.
With drug addiction.
And violence.

I can't seem to manage.
The basics.
Of life.

I just wake up.
Collect my body parts.
And, lurch.
Forward.
To do nothing.
All day.

And, it's boring.
But, I don't know how to live.
Just.
Exist.

Everything.
Collides.
Together.

In a kaleidoscopic.
View.

Then.
Dissipates.

Back.

Into.
Nothing.

Every new beginning.
Exists more poignantly.
In my fantasy.
Than in reality.
And the grandiose delusions.
Are finally wrong.

I'm simply.
Mundane.

Important to no ones.
Story.

I have no deus ex machina.
Just personal private moments.

And poorly worded.
Psychosis poetry.

The drugs just get me by.
And they're so mundane.
Comforting me softly in.
I'm ok with right now.

It's never strong enough.
To knock me out.
To fill this boredom with alright.
Everything for a moment of levity.

I want my mind to break
I don't wanna think.
I want to be subsumed in some feeling I don't.
Have.

For just a moment.
One second.
Of comfort.

Every drug is a footnote of what I've done.
Catalogued among all these bad trips.

I would have an excuse.
But, it's all so innocuous now.
Relatively normal.
To be around hard drugs.

Dingy basements smelling of mould.
And four pounds of morphine.
Mean men with mean tattoos testing me.
As though I'm not a degenerate.

A counter indication or  two.
The benzos make me mad.
I sleep on speed.
As I always get uncomfortably high.

Always making bad decisions.
Always taking too much.
Always groveling in my filth.

And, I make it a badge of  honour.
That I persist.
To get high again.

Tomorrow.

These self reflections draw me open.
I am disembowled by a self absorbed
Pen.

And my guts laid bare.
My life
Laid out as the taxonomy of my life
My intuition and my memory.
Revolt against me
And disappear.

All falls apart and I'm left barren.
A fallow field of feeble dreams.
Gazing at nothing.
Disassociated on an abstract thought.
Coiled frustration.
A pent up Oroborous.

Despair.
Inadequate.

I'm a waste of food.
Useless eater stuck in liminal time.
A phantasmal half life.

These poorly worded self fulfilling prophecies.
The apophenia of glossolia.
Beat down on my obsessive mind.

Everyone
is so.

Sad.

I gave up
on life.

But,
They aren't
sad
about.

Me.

They're sad
about.

How I
relate
to them

I used.
To get.
Lonely.

Until.

I got used.
To being.
Alone.

I don't think anyone will love me again.
I'd like to be sad about it.
But, I can't.

They're right.

I'm broken

Is this all I have.
Delaying death for one more day.
Surviving.
In terse translations of imperfection.
The sun, leering.
The trees, menacing.
And, I, found the abyss.
In this apathetic allusion.
Of actually living.

The sun out here is so bright.
Around the snaking slippery banks.
Of this creek.

It's still winter.
But the snow is melting into peculiar puddles.
That line the slushy snow.

There's always reserved ravens.
And a couple of crows.
Looming ominously over the skeletal remains of the glen by the creek.

Stillness.
Dried out carcasses.
Of recycled animals.
Brown and black with dirt.

It's quiet.
Out here.
In the boonies.

With the shrill cold wind blowing through leave-less trees.

She said she was *****.
And didn't know where she left her needles.

So I hung out in the kitchen.
Where I could see everything.

Trying to score dope.
In this *****'s house.

With a friend.

Don't you just wanna.
Scream.
In everyone's.
Face.

I don't care.
Just.
Go away.

I only get happy when I'm in these.
Liminal trance states.
Where I can forget.
Linear time.
And,
It's worse than I ever told you.

In my whole life.
Cause.

Remember.

I didn't tell you.
A God ******.
Thing.

It always felt like something.
Inevitable.
That at some point in time.

I'd be.
Good.
At something and all the ****.
I went through.

Would
mean something.

And, it was for a lack of trying.
Cause I didn't bother.
Not that I regret these nights I spend.
In my mind imagining images of magnificent things.

Better than this.
Subliminal torture.
Waiting for the patterns to equal.
A some of its parts.

I just can't quit.
These confessions.

That I'm not here anymore.
My fantasy babe, my partner,
My magic moment denied.
My cowards nature belied.

I'll scream passively into the void.
As I enjoy these.
My last moments.
Awake.

To recede into the banal mundane.
Of the routine.

Pity party.

I'm always at my best.
By myself.

And, if you plumb these.
Fathomless depths.

Of my inner life.

You'll find all of my.
Hyperbole.
I use to comfort me.

I coulda been something better.
Than a failed poet.
Who never wrote a good word.

At least I like to think I tried.
But, really.
I was just screaming at myself.

An empty head full of pointlessness.
Facts, theories, ideas.
Tepid facile fraudulent half thought out fantasies.

And, my friend.
If you find yourself in my personal.
Ocean.

I'll steal the water.

**** it deep in my core.
With all the interesting things I think.

No one really knows.
Cause I don't tell them.

In that hypothetical transcript of my personal failure.
I'll make the inconsistencies.
some of  these.
Vague requests to just.

Leave me alone.

To dance.
And be forgotten.

God's mistake.
A contradiction.

Nothing.