im in the process of extracting myself
from all the attributes that surround me

i'm picking myself out
from the remains of what i've seen
and what i've heard

i'm putting myself together
with what i've found in yesterday
and want to see in tomorrow

like a canvas full up with shades of color
being painted over with white
with no finished product in mind

perfect isn't what i'm going for
so i asked a cat for direction
and it grinned, said
you'll get where you're going ,
just walk

im just going to write a bunch of random ****
until i bleed this all out;
i've got a empty well of consciousness
and nobody knows me anymore,
or at least thats what i think

im not happy anymore;
im not sad anymore;
it's better i think, for the most part
but i miss me sometimes
but i cant look back

i have to stop trying to leave **** behind
im starting to block up
all the exits
i dont want to get stuck in this place
with all the nightmares we've had
and ignored
or maybe pretended never existed at all

maybe i seem stable these days
dont we all
i know suffering's everyones little secret
im not vain enough to think im the only one
with problems

but man
these days get heavier so quickly
and the nights last like desert storms

sometimes i get cold at night
but i cant wake up

some days i think ill **** the lights
and then myself
because i cant take living with you anymore
because you ****** me over so bad
and every day
i have to look at you look me in the eye
knowing you're telling yourself
what you did to me was okay

i dont understand
why am i so horrible
why am i so easy to leave
so replacable


you're horrible
why the hell am i the victim
when you're so twisted

sometimes i think about our friendship.
there's nothing worth salvaging,
i just remember
when we hated ourselves with a passion
that belonged to an empty past

we found ways of lighting matches
and setting flames to things
that we never even knew existed

and then the king of marionettes
tied strings to all his enemies

and the ones he should have trusted most
were considered unpredictable because
he did not control them

and so he hated us all
and i cried because i think
i may miss who we used to be

This poem should be about somebody.
It should describe
the feeling of
your hand in my palm
and your lips on my cheek,

it should tell someone
that they mean
something worth holding on to,
and so I wont let go

so long as they love me,
so long as 'happy'
is something
I can give to them.


But that isn't
what this poem is about.
it's just an empty shell
and 'happy'
isn't even something
i can give myself.

I'm so lonely
tell me,
where am I?

And why aren't you here