In a grand release of exposition
did I stumble through this mess.
Thrown into the midst of my own story.
Where am I?
Who am I?
What did I have for dinner the night before?
The night before that?
Does it matter?
Yes, I suppose it does.
It's all supposed to matter right?
That's the whole purpose of the story
and if the story doesn't matter
then the elements don't matter
and if the elements don't matter
than I don't matter.
Wait.
I don't, do I?
But I'm here and I'm supposed to do something.
But what is that something?
Ah **** it.
That's what I get for coming in on the back end of the story I guess.

I made a haiku
About the beauty of us
But i forgot it.

A mess of things.
That's what they were
are
have been
since the world had become
aware of her sad existence:
A bleak tale of little misfortune
and unimaginable distress.
The powerful sources of melancholy
have claimed another victimless victim!
For you see, she is not a hot mess,
she is a glorious problem.

And a hideous waste of everything beautiful.

In the bounds of space
there is a place
where the corners form
this infinite case
of dwelling.
And in the walls
there are empty calls
from the people
places
things
direction
to somewhere else
you take it and
you meet
greet
the different consciouses
that come out to
linger here
there
where
wherever the corridors
take you
us
me
to the desert
of a deserted
movie theater
to the ocean
of crocodiles
set free across the
tennis courts
outside
but you
us
me
can't get outside.
but you are outside.
Outside of what is
was
might be
real before
and maybe
after
it won't be the same
the name
is there but
you've perhaps forgotten
what it is
was
might be
for you
us
me
neither here
there
where
it's gone.
But it will come back.

Half completed thoughts are like
Half completed memories are like
Half accepted duties are like
Half anticipated woes.

Half completed days are like
Half completed lives are like
Half accepted friends are like
Half anticipated foes.

Half completed films are like
Half completed stories are like
Half accepted ideas are like
Half anticipated goals.

Half of life is waiting
For something else to do.
But you're in it for the pleasure
And for all the other stuff too.

There was something hidden in the corner
of some place I couldn't touch.
I heard it move. I felt it.
But everyday I let it be.
I let it grow.
I let it live.
I let it find a new place to hide.
Maybe I am too afraid to find out what it is
that hides in the back of my mind.
Or maybe I'm too scared that I'll miss having one secret
that I could keep from myself.

Careful. Articulate because this is it.
This is your cue to go, but you
continue. You go on as if it
matters, but it doesn't and you
don't. You see, because there are
things that don't have reason,
and there are people who don't have
souls.  I made the mistake of being here now,
and you made the mistake of thinking that I was lonely.