giving other lives a meaning
not caring about yourself
is that what selfless is

you don’t even care
when you’re happy or not
as long as they’re happy
even without you

I'm fine without you

I leave bed a little bit less
I'm always tired
and my room is a mess

but
I'm fine without you
Sometimes I cry for no reason
and I'll blame it on mood swings
or the change of season

but
I'm fine without you
although I think of you all day
wondering why you left and
hoping you're okay

but
I'm fine without you
My friends have concern
they say I've lost it
and I'm letting my life burn

but
I'm fine without you
the rare occasions I'm in my car
I don't wear a seatbelt
and I'm headed to the bar

but
I'm fine without you
I really swear that it's true
I guess I'm spiraling out of control
but it's not because of you...

The wind whispers,
Calls to me.
The trees stretch their limbs,
Wanting me entangled with them.
The grass grabs at my toes,
And raindrops kiss my skin.
What do I choose?
Do I stay with my fellow humans,
Where I was designed to be?
Or do I fall into nature,
With where I so desperately
Want to be?

I used to have this dream about white umbrellas with red dots and red umbrellas with white dots, and there was a beach with nice sand-- the soft kind that doesn’t feel scratchy on bare thighs.
Maybe a blue woven blanket and a transit radio with rusted edges. But there were never any people.
Except for me.
I was there walking along the too soft sand- barefoot and jubilant.
The waves crashed horizontally- you could see them, but came quickly to the realization that you would never feel them- they only traveled left and right.
And the sun and clouds and very much blue sky would be extremely beautiful-- until a sort of smoke like thought would enter your head. The thought
none of this is real.



I used to have a lot of dreams. But now I’m not so sure when I dream- when exactly I stop dreaming.
It’s like someone pushed a pause button on my ability to sense reality as it is.
It’s a terrible tribulation to attempt to hold focus- my head is a daydream.
Like I'm living in an upside down daydream where nothing is real, yet my actions do in fact have consequences.
Like I am nothing more than a person made up by another mind sent to play poker on the 50" flat screen you just had to buy.
My head is attached to my body but my mind is not. And this body-- my body- is not actually so.



Every memory is disfigured and foggy and seems to make no real connection.
Who am I?
I don’t know and I don’t think I’ll ever know again.
It’s too complex a thought.
Am I saying I like something because I like it- do I truly enjoy it?
Or am I just saying so-
I mean, what do I really like?
Who is this person behind my eyes?
I’m not sure anymore.