All the things I havent said.
I'd like to say.
Sometime far away.
Maybe, before I'm dead.

I've lost the motivation.
I've forgotten the plot.
To my multi syllabic salvation.
With an obfuscated forget me not.

I've written out my frustration.
Onto the rap sheet.
Of when I fell asleep.
Can't write with this lack of attention.

I think I'm trying to  resolve.
The contradiction in my mind.
Writing something to absolve.
Me, of this truth I just can't find.

I have so many things to say.
Just, maybe not today.

I don't know the words.
That meant so much.
To you.

I just said them.

I'm always at my best.
By myself.

And, if you plumb these.
Fathomless depths.

Of my inner life.

You'll find all of my.
Hyperbole.
I use to comfort me.

I coulda been something better.
Than a failed poet.
Who never wrote a good word.

At least I like to think I tried.
But, really.
I was just screaming at myself.

An empty head full of pointlessness.
Facts, theories, ideas.
Tepid facile fraudulent half thought out fantasies.

And, my friend.
If you find yourself in my personal.
Ocean.

I'll steal the water.

**** it deep in my core.
With all the interesting things I think.

No one really knows.
Cause I don't tell them.

In that hypothetical transcript of my personal failure.
I'll make the inconsistencies.
some of  these.
Vague requests to just.

Leave me alone.

To dance.
And be forgotten.

God's mistake.
A contradiction.

Nothing.

I'm dying on the inside.
Every single day.
And, I meander through the torpor.
Into listlessness.
And an apropo addendum.

I'm sorry
I guess.

Incapable of change.

Death is a welcome friend taking too long at the convenience store.
And, I'm patiently.

Waiting.

For my friend to appear.
Either asked for or uninvited.

I wish he would hurry.
Up.

Everyone is either dead.
Or I got lost a long time ago and they just couldn't
locate me.

And, we don't speak anymore.
So there's always just me to pick up these ashes.
Of my social scene.

And, these habits.
Get repetitive.

A recurring nightmare of banal idle boredom.
The chore of exercise for your basic transportation.
Pacing the halls in pensive angst.
Trying to fight the motorists.
As they pass by.

They don't know I'm king ****.
Of my own.
**** island.

Even if I walk the Earth in exile.

I'm at a loss for words.
Whether what I say is important.

Or some idle.
Threat.

To punish.

No one.
But.
Myself.