The sun impresses fire into my being.
And.
I want to steal it.
And bury it deep.
In Tyrannus' depth.

I walked among the funeral pyres.
Caked in the dust of so many dead.
Things.
And.
On the horizon is coming autumn.
In the air is stinging winter.

How many cycles left?
How many austerities.
Til I break through.

To the Gods and spirits.
And, offer my taboo trickster spirit.

Some blood.

From a sacrificial offering.

It cuts like fire.
It burns a knife inside my soul.
This is irrelevant.
This is unmediated.

And on all the indigo sunsets.
I etch my epitath.

I am in darkness.
The light has gone out.
And.
I am now rotting.
Fetid.
Foul.

Tyler says.
My problem has always.
Been my paranoia.

But he neglects the self doubt.
The self hatred.
Or the hallucinations.

And, every day I struggle.
With the will to live.
Especially when it turns out.
I'm not really that unique.

Id hate to be the person.
Who admires.
My imperfections.

Every new beginning.
Exists more poignantly.
In my fantasy.
Than in reality.
And the grandiose delusions.
Are finally wrong.

I'm simply.
Mundane.

Important to no ones.
Story.

I have no deus ex machina.
Just personal private moments.

And poorly worded.
Psychosis poetry.

I'm.
Not.

Missing.
Out.

On.
Life.

I'm.
Just.
Waiting.
To.
Die.­

It's.
Not.
Exactly.

What.
You.

Want.

But,
I.
Never.

Asked.

The.
Sun.
Has.
Burnt.
My.
Hangover.
Into.
My.
Soul

I'm.
Gasping.­
For.
Air.

With.

Leather.
Backed.
Lungs.

And.
Baby.

Maybe.
Yo­u.
Got.
Me.
All.
Wrong.

As.
I.
Lurch.
Forward.

Or.
Lay.
Down.
A­nd.

Fade.

Into.
The.
Bleeding.
Days.

Where.

Yesterday.
Became­.

Today.

In.
The.
Sunset.

With.
Nausea.

Everyday.

I struggle.
To find.
Basic.

Motivations.

To live.

Other.
Than.

Drugs.