Is it worse, being it that
my plight has no doors?

The line of sight agreeing with-
stand failure to converse,
despite seeing the design I fight myself with my own curse:
to die of thirst while they ignore
the gasping they have heard before.

I might have given more.
I might have given more.

Me too, I said, I'm well
biting back tears before they fell
or my voice dropped, no one hears
Im dead. Writing from hell.

My eyes
as emotions of joy crown
I feel my lids weigh heavy down
to steal living from ---

I am hallucinating my bathtub
I miss sam august, and prompts, everyone.

Just hallucinated my parents house.

Where at this moment am i.

I sit with my father, who is hanging on to frustration at a ******* on the pass.
my mother is across from me, baiting conversation.
The art museum today has bare walls, and their halls only display what my father calls, the place your mind is left where at yourself is all you find to stare, bet that *******-whole reeks to bare

*******.



I wish I could get a space, have it set up with a bed, tons of blankets, tons of lights, tons of curtains, and random pieces of wood. And one side of the wood is painted in a grey-purple, and I have indigo chalk. And it's a living exhibition of narcolepsy. And i just rearrange constantly, and write poems on the undersides of the wood, which I use to fashion ever-changing furniture.

Schrodinger's potential is kinetic.
A life unknowing fault versus genetic.

Often I bear loss
where time and presence cross.

Like briefcases in Bond, but the entire alphabet...
distraction catch me (if I'm blessed)
from mismatch in perception (messed);

it is this or nothing.