I was never good.
At growing up.

I still.

Get high.
Sleep too late.
Hate myself.
With teenage angst.

Never once did.
I come around  to these.
Inevitable life lessons.
I was supposed to find in the meandering.
Of life.

I still get arrested.
Still run from my problems.
Don't want no wife.
No long term friends.

Nothing to bind me to reality.
As though I'm playing the game of life.
Correctly.

I keep making temporary solutions.
Permanent.
Bad choices.

I
Ain't got no white picket house.
No long term girlfriend.
I'm hardly ever sober.

Milling about in the ennui.
Of poverty.
Tons of time.
Nothing to buy.

It's still the herb
That comforts me.
As though I"m still 16.

With me and my neurosis.
These learned behaviours I taught myself.
Aren't,
Exactly functional.

I'll be something.
Someday.
Somehow.

I guess.

It's not that important.

I'm just.
Waiting to die.

At any age.

I used to talk to him.
In the backyard.

Filled with
dog ****.
We never
cleaned.

But his old yarns.
Were as lively.

As the sky burning purple and orange.
In these
prairie sunsets.

I suppose he was dying.
Then.
But,
not dead enough.
To not be able to tell.
A tall tale.
Or two that.
Changed,
every time he told them

I got lost in his.
Used to bes.
And, people who
ain't no angels.
Setting each other on fire.
For five dollar debts.

But,
It went further.
Back then.

Moving boulders with his hands.
And the backstory.
Of my own little.
**** town.

Leather brown skin baked in the sun
every day.
Lost in things he'd hoard.
Mining for some
random signifcance.

I tried to find.
The patterns to his.
Crazy stories.

His unhappy story.

And, how entertaining they were.

Eventually.
He died.

And, the dogs.
Ate him.

We used to dance.
With each other.
When there was noone there.

Singing nothings to each other.
In whispered jokes.
And, know me nots.

You told me it.
Didnt matter.
How I looked.
Just had to.
Move  to the beat.
Comes up sometimes when.
I'm lonely.
Mom.

Like some old Motown Song.
Dull hum on a record player.
The tube television.
Static and syndication

And I don't wanna know.
If it was a dream.
Or not.

Cause, I"m still there I hope.
Dancing til I'm dead.

Coulda been something beautiful.
And,
It sure is nostalgic

Tomorrow.
Coulda been something.
If I wanted to be
there.

Seems like I'm.
Just waiting
for the
world to end.

The horizons are
on fire.
Death coming from
above.
On wings of whispered.
Annihilation.

I'd rather be travelling.
But.
Thinkin of running away somewhere.
Else.
Somwehere safe.
Though,
I never do.

And, I can't escape the.
Shock.
Wave.

I'm just running on empty.
Hopped up on adrenaline.

Avoiding flashes in the distance.
Suns being born.

Me

Though.

I've got
cobwebs in my
mind.
Forgetting how to think.
When wit is all I need.
To sleep.
Or dream.

May this
Terror flee me.
As I'm.
Occupying my time.
With a poor
short term memory.

With
denial.

Punishment for something.
I
never
did.

And I hear the air raid siren.
Bleating in my mind.

Is this love.
In the age of information.

Losing everything
with no power to.
Stop it.

I wrote you so many poems.
I forgot which ones they were or their name.
Just a bleeding into itself of yesterdays and regrets.

Who knew you'd tell me once not to tell you what to think.
And, I wouldn't.
And, I didn't.

But, me, on myself, on how I behave.
I just fade away faster than usual these days.
When someone abandons me.

Once again I must subvert my own interests.
For the fantasies about myself.
In other people's mind.

So, blame me for my response I guess.
I wouldn't know.
You left without a word.
No need to communicate.
To who you claim to love.

Or I could get angry.
Frustrated.
Passionate.
Something, I guess.

But, I don't.
I never have.

I just leave and move on.

can't remember the.
Point.
This all went from some romantic misadventure.
With my life in danger.

And,
Turned into.

Just another day.
Just more lost dopamine.
Just a ******.

I hide it now.
Or not.
You can't tell if I'm high.
When I'm wailing at that wall again.
Even when I'm sober
But, the only difference between acid and my psychosis is that acid is predictable.

Best not to think about the copious amounts I do.
Or the.
LD50.
That I thought was safe.

Somewhere in here there's a drugstore cowboy.
Shooting something other than the moon.

Hedonism they call it.
As though these stupors I get into.
Are enjoyable.

Poppycock.

It's.

Just another day.
Another pathology.
Another unresolved internal contradiction.

Friend, maybe it's the style.
But, all I know.
Is that I cant stand not being.
Comatose.