My leaves are yellow and orange
The surroundings are shades of brown and sorrow
the branches have already fallen
and just like that
the tree was hollow

none of my jeans fit
i used to wish for this

but now its a reality

i thought once i lost the weight
i'd be happy

but now i'm worse than ever

food
why can't I get my mind off of you
                  every
                       single
                             second
never skinny enough
never happy enough
never
enough

Funny the older I get the more I find myself changing
The ways I hurt myself always change, different pains. Same vices

As appealing as seeing my blood make those strange designs as they drip down my arms sounds.
It’s becoming harder to hide the wounds.

Maybe it’s the self doubt? Challenging myself on the most minor choices. Eating away at me.

Becoming obsessive over friends, strangers, anyone really.
Knowing I’m not their problem.

Or maybe it’s the drugs, the same ones that keep my brain at bay are the ones that make the grey matter rot,

it’s all about moderation, and tonight I have none.

I’m on a drive,
I’m smoking a cigarette
I’m hearing very little
I’m feeling even less
Wonder if I’ll see the engine stop, I wonder if these keys will enter my pockets again.

I wonder if the lights fade out or if it’s a cut to black

New weapons.
Same vices.
Good night.

uncommon grows normal
routine with procedure
getaways, paradise, heaven
bare, void, blank
air occupies what was
take afoot inside
think comfort, warmth
ignited with flames
books of wisdom
books of happy
books of reflection
raveled with devouring famine
scorching heat searing
the leather casing
the thin sheets
the purpose of it all
all that's left
crumbled cracking at the seams
indistinguisable at corners
words left legible
smack dab middle
with colors reminiscent
pouring white milk
into black coffee
only this time
an odor intoxicating as gasoline

"I am tired"
Yet I light the cigar again
"I am tired"
Yet I am five shots in again
"I am tired"
Yet I take another happy little pill too soon
I am starting to wonder what kind of tired I am

We bought the galaxy
on a mortgage of borrowed time.
Because I wanted
to give you something grand
and you wanted space
and all of the stars.

Who’s in charge of this?
Not us, lying in a single bed
traversing the skies;
you need a bottle-opener
for your wine,
so you destroy a planet
and forge one in a star –
one use only.

I tell you that if we fall
into a black hole,
we’ll see in front of us
everything that will ever happen;
and you tell me you’ll look behind,
instead.

We try and find one,
but our hands come up empty,
and you say you never liked
vacuums, anyway.

I know all this.
I’ve always known all this,
and yet still,
I let you destroy
any home we create;
your hammer on the mantelpiece.

Perhaps spinning through the universe
is worthwhile,
because it means you
have to hold onto something;
finally.