I yearn for irrelevant.
Laughter.
Something fun.

Instead.

I just blissfully drift.
Into my idea.
My abstraction.

Independent of reality.

I can't get up the energy.
To be interested in your lack.
Of a personality.

No.
I don't ****.
I just drift into rhythm.
And melody.

Wait to die.

Sleeping til six.

Eventually the mystique.
Of not working.
Wears off.

Pointless conversations with cray people.
Who are usually high and looking.
For a way to **** or rob you.
Get old.

One day you wake up from that rebellious.
Romantic.
Utopia.
Of good times.

And, you're missing your teeth.
Nothing in common with.
People you used to be.

I try to tell myself she didn't.
Love me.
But.
She did.
I just ****** it up.
Like I always do.

But,
She still hurts.
To think about.

The way she smiled.
Liked to see me happy.
Enjoyed.
My company.

I can't stop.
Dreaming about her.

I don't want to.
She was my worst mistake.

Maybe I am neurotic.
Repeating myself.
Regurgitating my inner soul.
My internal stream of thought replicating.
Into infinity.

Didn't you want to explode.
Like I did.
Like I yearned.
For a cataclysm.

My grandma was a basket baby.
Living through the revivals.
Held in tents.
Never dreaming of anyone else.
Outside of the farm.
Or the family.
Or the dancehall.
One small novel.
In the backwoods.