Every day.
I feel like sleeping.

Rather.
Be unconscious than this.
Self conscious.
Subconsciously neurotic.
Paranoid ideation.

I live.

Not to mention.
The delusions.

Better to fantasize.
Than bother with the day.
To days.

Of getting up.
Getting high.
Lost in a radicalized.
Weaponized.
Grave yard of ideas.

Ranting to no one so
publicly.
It would be embarassing.

If I didn't know how to.

Disappear.

Some kinda.
Dismissive avoidant style.

Beating that internal bad object.
To a well earned death.

And, at least.
I still dream.

He said I was.
High tension.
It's not like he's wrong.
I do scream at cops.

And, find myself in institutions.
Involuntary circumstances.
Of a rotten mind left to gaze.

Into that dark nothingness.
That void of regret.

A black chasm.
I find myself falling into.

An infinite void.
Of negative emotions.

Anhedonia.
Got me down.

I awake to light.
Boring itself through my skull.
And,
Baby,
There ain't no us.

There's just me

With a headache.

Reevaluating my life.
Choices.

My life is up for interpretation.
Discussion, I never wanted it to be.
As though there was a right way.
To live.
Or be.
Living.

As though my lived experiences.
Were just mirages.
Mistakes and maladaptive memories.
Maybe.
It was all a bad.
Dream.

Even as moments reside deep in my subconscious.
And, how I felt.
Which isn't much.  These days.
Cause why feel bad.
When you.
Can just.
Not feel at all.

Lost in that stoic impulse.
To  endure.  Every.
Loss.  As a passing of leaves in autumn.
The heat of summer and i's dissipation.
Something.
To be uninvested in.

Resilient.
Yolked to the failures.
Of a wasted life.

Punctuated.

With some decent days.

It always felt like something.
Inevitable.
That at some point in time.

I'd be.
Good.
At something and all the ****.
I went through.

Would
mean something.

And, it was for a lack of trying.
Cause I didn't bother.
Not that I regret these nights I spend.
In my mind imagining images of magnificent things.

Better than this.
Subliminal torture.
Waiting for the patterns to equal.
A some of its parts.

I just can't quit.
These confessions.

That I'm not here anymore.
My fantasy babe, my partner,
My magic moment denied.
My cowards nature belied.

I'll scream passively into the void.
As I enjoy these.
My last moments.
Awake.

To recede into the banal mundane.
Of the routine.

Pity party.

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.