Michael's secret curse
Is to live by not living
Doesn't want to admit
We can give by not giving
Or find fault in presumptive
Associations
If you wasted your youth
Well of course we waited

Because my value derives
From a forced kind of tension
Never get what you want
They discourage the mention
Of the flaw in your heart
We all see but conspire
To call something art
So there's **** to admire

She's in labor,
You can tell.
This dream is set free by death
Because only through death can there be definition,
A terminus.

Pangs of fear,
Not work not hapless
But somewhere in between
Where they lay in the experience.

You can tell you're about to be born,
That it's on the other side
That it fills itself and spills and repeats like a swiveling bucket

That good enough for eternity is a terrible thing to be.

Love is real love is real love is real

You have a digestive quality
You move through time
Like a worm
Eating itself

Do I mean that?
Are you me?
Did i give myself layers I have yet to attain?

I hate you for not loving me the way I love myself

I hate you for that

I hate you

No.

I will not craft beautiful language about daisies and daffodils
Weaving abstract and concrete realities

I will continue on my existential path

I will not provide a respite from these horrible worries I have

That is what you do
For me

I am a writer in turmoil.

I will keep thrashing in this way until I die.

SOMETIMES I will snap out of my coma
And enjoy writing about the way it's just beautiful
Something else
Something descriptive and nice

I honestly feel bad for writing things like that song
'I can't do this anymore'

But no.

I have turned into myself
Like an incel--
And I hate you for not loving me the way i love myself

I hate you for it.

I hate you.

I hate you for that.