It's not a car wreck I fear,
not an illness or disease.
I don't fear cardiac arrest,
or slipping and hitting my head.
I'm not worried about getting killed,
death will come
when it deems me worthy of harvest.

I'm not afraid of death, I'm afraid of wasting my life.
I'm afraid of living a life laced with routines,
routines that crept in over the years
and make time fly on fast-forward.

I'm afraid of opportunities, missing them,
letting them pass me by
so that I may yet reside
in my comfortable fast-forwarding life.

I'm afraid of the adventures,
the ones I skipped out on.
The ones that happened
while I was sitting here comfortable,
and alone.

I fear the friends,
the ones I never made.
I hear their strange voices
while I whistle along,
working my comfortable job.

I'm frightened, you see?
Not of death, nor misery.
I'm terrified at night,
when I lie down in bed
after another day spent
In this comfortable life.

Yes,
my tastes are shallow.
Although still deep enough
to drown myself in.

Been looking for
a specific type of gal:
a delicate flower
that can take
a hard *******.

Pretty, yet sturdy.
Crystalinne,
but not brittle.
Loving,
but willing
to hate-**** me
when I forget
to take the trash out.
Or when she catches me
eyeing another woman's ***.

Bring me your finest spite,
pour it over me
in a liquid display
of primal ecstasy.

The vast vapidity
is humbling.

My hollow heart
hasn't the slightest chance,
faced up against
your echoing chasms.

These...
...sallow reverberances?
They ricochet
within my skull,
making my ears ring.

Like a bullet
laced with guilt,
laden with lament.

A supersonic dose
of peace.

Constantly accommodating conditionality
has steadily become entirely intolerable,
thus this premonition of exquisite repose
grants my psyche an opportunity to rejoice.

Your lack of communication is infinitely frustrating,
so when you ask me why I haven't called you yet
it's because I knew you wouldn't answer.

You don't want to actually talk about anything,
you just want some kind of validation of your actions.
Well now you've got it, you made the right call.

When I first found that note, my initial reaction was
a great sense of irritation and anger.
When I could think clearly again I found that my true
feeling was one of immense relief.
Relief that it's over and that I no longer have to be so
God ****** annoyed anymore.
Relief because it's over, and I didn't even have to be
the one to end it. You're really too kind.

The note was perfect, it allowed us to just walk away
without the strain of seeing each other one last time.
I walked away, and I was not angry and I was not sad.
I crumpled up the note, chucked it over my shoulder
and it landed perfectly in the garbage can behind me.
I felt free.

But when you go and message me
nearly three weeks later
asking why I haven't called you,
the relief fades back into anger.
It fades back into irritation,
annoyance, and frustration.
I don't mind feeling those feelings,
but what I do mind is that you're
too fragile of a being
to be able to communicate
while I am in that state.


So either stand up and talk to me,
or walk away and let me feel relief.
Let me be free.