still stuck

he's capable of terribly dark things, but what do i need it. i have my own.
and i wonder what the stars taste like after a loss of 
self.
still vigorous amour to my dreams?

no, you cannot love my heaviness. you cannot even handle your weakness.
and i think i'm going to be humming songs of regret about you
until i have enough vocabulary near me to compose
about love.
why did i chose your nothingness to give me hope? ...

i let go of past lovers and chained myself to a masochist
who fit the tragedies my mind concocts.
you were well fit for the part. you fed my misery
well.
well, where is our love now.

drunken rants pt. (i've lost count)

death is something to reach for. one day we will all go. you too. the only difference is i'm breaking my clock early. i'm taking control. i don't want bondage by order, a paycheck, 9-5 workloads, or sugar cube buds that form around tired mouths. i don't want to clog my airways anymore with love. a fleeting feeling, a passion that tires and courses through my veins quickly destroying anything i gain. there is no savior in the form of another soul. i feel i can finally be pure with this great release. i can be or not be and here, i am not. but maybe there i will.

+++

Purposeless floating. Lifelessness continues.

"Just give it some time" is not an option anymore, and when you don't value what you have, you have nothing. You are a robot. You are full of movement, and you take care of your responsibilities like everyone wants you to, but there is nothing at the core.

Surviving.
I mean, that's what everyone wants me to do. For what though? I am surviving only to eventually die? I am surviving only to eventually move in to a nursing home? What am I surviving for? Death is certain. I am miserable. Everyday. It's a struggle. I try, and I put on my pretty people face and I put on my trendy clothes and I walk and I work and I buy things. I pay my taxes, I recycle. I live as far as I can.

Contradiction.
I think the only time I am truly happy is probably when I'm sleeping. Though I never feel it and I don't remember my dreams

sometimes, writing is so painstaking. And not the process of memories or emotional baggage that rises up. But the process. The puzzle you're trying to finish when so many pieces don't even fit and you have to just sit still, be patient and work through it. You know it's there. It came with the box, you just have to find it.

fucking consumes me.

I can taste the acid on my tongue sometimes. Every time actually, every time you open your mouth. That perfect mouth, with those lips that could tear words right out of my heart. 

I can taste your delight. Your colors. Your smile, that smile that I have grown to avoid for fear of melting into hands too cold to carry me. 

Manipulation, you can work it so easy.