words are boring me lately.
every story I read seems to
be baiting me to jump.
the ledges I write remind me
that flying is falling.
dry ink is apalling;
chalk outlines look like milk
in the rain;
falling isnt flying at all.
I have to remind myself of that.
I'm selfish.
I'm selfish.
my shelves sit full.
it all ends.
both sides.
no flying.
no falling.
I'm falling.
I'm lying.
I wouldnt call me either.

two nights ago I overdosed
for the fourth time in five years.

I don't even know if I'm alive
or dreaming.
right now or forever.
write it down,
cords were severed.
I'm breathing either way.
I'm breathing either way.
but dreams can fade slow but they'll fade.
so either way,
I'm breathing.
either way,
I'm breathing.

Emily Dickinson earned her immortality.
fair and square.
if not for any other reason besides
being the reason the words "squirrel" and "eclipse" get to exist forever
right beside one another in print.

this new Pharoahe Monch and th1rt3en album keeps crashing
YouTube Music.
cheap *** phone.

I've written a poem,
a list of websites paying for poetry with how much they are paying for it,
and this.

I picked up Catching the Big Fish by David Lynch for inspiration and never made it passed the first page
of the contents before all that manifested.

threads have only ever
been a human thing.

I'm always drawing my best
on the worst paper
beauty is ugly
looseleaf in gold-trimmed
porcelain
read
mutiny as muse
spoon feeds
raspberries
airplanes
carry me back to that
bare faced Jerusalem youth
please
milk
honey
but no clue about Fukui
on Scenery though
yea no actually I think I'm good
fine with a horizon walk
illusory
lucid to Euclidean
viral fault
apathetic is sedative
dead end Oedipus
idiot
falling
laugh track
cash grabs
bill money
hit the plug up
medicine
unstuck and abstracted
built something still
ugly is beautiful
my .05 fine liner is empty
its all trash
thanks though

but what of the jilted lovers
cutting off their hair in the
proverbial backyard?

the dreamers learning to speak
through pillaged nights
like cheap tin cans on pink
and white twine?

are they with me in my
brittle bones while tomorrow
writhes in our collective
unconscious?

I writh despite the answer.

I'm not honest,
obnoxious.
I'm progress made for the sake
of having to say "stop this".
I'm boxes with the name of God
scribbled in blockscript on top of them.
I'm carpe diem,
unresponsive.
I'm learning dark age surmation while awaiting the moment the darkness has faded.

I'm a ******* art show all by my self.
I'm in hell.
I'm the hardship.
Harvest losses.
...only a part of it all is ever seen though.