I wonder if it is something profound and important,
when I run out of words to express what is making
my muscles into cement, my conscience depart, a bad
taste in my mouth – I haven’t even eaten today.
Since when was my emotion physical? My body and
subconscious have a deal, it’s married to my bone marrow
now. Again, my mistake. So, I’ll pen something astounding and wait for the placebo to devour me. On a higher dosage, I yearn to only write about nature and beauty and faeries and one man – but,
alas, the age of dreaming ended years before me. I’ll mourn that always; Ah, so that’s the reason
I can never be whole. Look, no one can avert anymore, overexposed florescent lights like a closing bar to drunk eyes. Success or
enlightenment, is to satisfy the fetish for non-fiction, to lay yourself bare, exhibit the stains on your jeans. All things born from idiocy, screaming without thinking is living. I can feel the phantom beat of it when I write, so I’ll lay myself bare, when I can work out, who
would be interested in that.
This daily flare is what I count on, for it seems people want too much to be the same. It is the fraying on my sleeve, mould on my damp walls, paint stripped door, both inside and out of me and I cherish it – for without
it I would be speechless therefore in much more pain.
Does it bother you how fast cars move with us inside?
To be alive is to fear and so I am immortal.
Send me off to another dimension, where everything and
anything written is true and time is not a constraint. Wake me when the night begins, enjoyment then is the only true pleasure. Familiarity diminishes size.
This century, I guess we are grappling with the pressure to
want to be admired – it’s starting to pick at my couch cushion calm.
I promise I’ll admire myself one day, you might too. We’ll see how we go.
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