I carry a hum that was never even mine—
It's nested behind my own teeth just pacin’.
It twitches within the folds of my thoughts.
And slips into rooms that I have no place in.

The face in the faucet, it watches back,
Not accusing, not kind. But still in my sight.
Waiting to see if I'll either blink first,
Or just admit I’ve been sleeping upright.

There’s a dark ritual in my own pretending.
Though the stillness isn’t staged at all.
I’m not rehearsing the way that I'll answer.
These questions, I just hope that they never call.

The lightbulb that hums, sick of carelessness—
And sick of flickering knowing I never mind..
Even my own shadow has memorized,
The way I don’t breathe, act, or move right.

I fold my hands up in the wrong directions.
I acknowledge nonexistent people with words.
There’s comfort inside this cold dissonance,
Like that perfect chord that's too broken to be heard.

Time doesn’t pass me; it floats or reruns.
Moments just drip right back to no form.
I stir up the air just to prove I exist,
Forget why I did it, then stir up some more.

The consequences? I can't say they crush me.
It’s different than that—it’s odd, and so patient.
It’s like taking the breath that never finishes,
But insists trying again, now knowing it's forsaken.

People like to ask me how I look so tired.
I wish I could answer with a diagram,
Of how feeling nothing can cost everything.
Or how much it weighs to not know who I am.

I don’t want forgiveness, and I don't need saving.
I Don't even truly value status or wealth.
But I’d value not having to constantly carry,
This overgrown stagnant absence of myself.

Calculated thoughts pour down like rain, Unable to stop the light from breaking through clouds
And poking holes in your disillusionment. It’s annoying,
Like a midge buzzing around in the way you try to define it,
But pensive as you’ve ever been.
I feel no shame in what becomes of—Shallow indifference indulged by your lack of sentiment.
The truth is evidence that you were always this, from conception, a single atom of disruption.

No one could love a black cloud,
Even if you play Pan flutes and gather the innocent around.
You aren’t in Narnia;
When the truth comes swinging round like death’s scythe or scalpel,
it’s time to rid yourself of the cancer you’ve become.
Dead eyes,
Doll-like,
Sad vibes—
caught in your misanthropy.

The light still breaks through,
Love prevails to spite you.
Dead as you are and crippled as you become,
We throw you like bait as a cast-off,
Bit by bit, they circle and consume until the light breaks through.

Should you meet your maker tonight,
Tell him you never deserved your life. Blame it on the ones who never treated you right
And hope that God plays a violin.

As the light breaks through,
It casts congregation upon your disillusioned misanthropy.