I want to say I can't do it
But I can.
I know I can make it
I just wish I couldn't.
I wish it was too much
And I'd end it all.
Too healthy for my own good
Too unhealthy for the same.

I've described myself as
A conglomerate of hands and arms
Reaching out and grabbing
At everything within reach.
Constantly reaching and searching for more,
For the answer
For comfort or love or knowledge,
Or any abuse to make me forget about
This ****** up world and my ****** up psyche.
Hands, grabbing, reaching
Never being grasped.

Arpeggios
Of imprisoned frustration,
Finally leaking out
In notes and tones so pure,
Steel strings.

Comfort.

These back country roads highlight the presence of nothingness.
Pushing through murky thoughts of
Inexistence, burning the smoke of loneliness and impotence.
Alone with myself.

Today I'm thankful
For those who pushed me
Those who provoked me
Those who forced me
To write.

Every day
This sun rises
And shines light upon our mistakes.
Conglomerate of neat and nasty people.
Hydrogen doesn't care.

The corner store says she smells like
"Pine tree" scented candle,
But to me she smells like
A decent bet,
And a couple skipped heart beats.