Sometimes I feel this tugging at my heart.

It's weird cause I haven't felt anything in a while.

I hate that tugging.

I know it's trying to revive itself,

but I don't want it to.

Whenever I come across a memory

It jumps,

as if its trying to say

"Remember? Remember?"

I lie and tell it

"No, now shut up."

It's just better if it remains silent.

Of course it doesn't get that

Nope there it is

Jumping.

Tugging.

Can't you see I am lifeless?

Of course not

the heart doesn't have eyes

Unfortunately.

What is it like to die young in a date?
Is there complete quiet with no uproar?                                                                          
Or could there be music, that is one great?
For that the dancing tale that I must gloar.    

Her ball room is seen by the candle lights
It's dark and cold yet kinda of painless
The great music, from the middle age nights
She walks among a lifeless and black dress

She'll take your'll hand to dance in her gain
A dance you won't know, cause there you have no right
You spin not knowing the cause of your pain
Then you fall, eyes closed, the light of white

Now, a ghost remembering my last breath

I tell about my dance with lady death

Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

I am a miserable ****.

Traffic jam thoughts.
Aimless speech.
Fever dreams,
coffee with no cream,
love with no pulse,
alone at restaurants,
            at grocery stores,
            at parties.

I have no identity.

Shifting shape, black to blue,
trading girls, red hair for Persian skin,
parents and gods,
politicians and lost purpose mobs,
all asking me to be sacred,
                            to be loving,
                            to be trusting,
                            to be active,
                            to have no spine.

All I want is a bit of my own time.

A grenade of change,
to end the coagulation of my brain,
to leave me hungry for anything
other than me,
didn't somebody say I was promised something?
                                            I was going somewhere?
                                            I was unique?

I am the same miserable ****,

As every other miserable ****.

The ******* that cut you off on Highway 62,

The person that complained about too many pickles,
on his precious fast food,

The boy yelling at his baby sister for getting too much attention,

The girl sexting your boyfriend,

The boy sexing your girlfriend,

The generation divorcing everyone it knows so it can fall in love with

itself.

All different,
in exactly the same way.

Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
                   Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
            trafficjamthoughts. traffic. Traffic Jam Thoughts. Thoughts.
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Jam.
thoughts. traffic. trafficjam. trafficjam. traffic jam thoughts.traffic.
traffic jam. traffic, traffic, traffic. I am a miserable ****. Traffic jam.