She told me she was never happy.
As I made her laugh.

And,
She said that she felt alone.
Whenever she talked to me.

And,
Maybe I don't pick on signs.
But, I wonder if it coulda been something good.

If I had just said hello.

Maybe made her laugh.
I don't really know.
I'm relatively oblivious to the things.

Going on around me.

I don't know the difference.
Between one mystifying display of emotion.
From the other.

But shouldn't being happy when.
Mostly you're miserable be a sign.

There coulda been an us.

I remember.
When God told me.
'Is this the best you can do?  Life in a room?'

And from my heart I said.

In here.
I can forget I exist.

Exist.

Only as a stray thought.
It's not my prison.
It's the twenty feet I can control.

When everything is so.

Fragile.

Everything.
All the time.
All at once.
And, I make sense.
Out of the tangents.
Writing the narrative that is my life.
And, will you be a footnote in the poorly worded.

Dialogue.

And, will you be a friend to the no one I've become.
An, index to all my poor plot choices and poorly rounded characters.
That pepper my life.
With the mundane.

Mediocre.

The sky is so beautiful.
On fire.

I'm a conflagration.
Away from an Apocalypse.
And the beasts they bray.

In their fields.
With their burdens.

And me.

I'm suavely waving off all responsibility.
Just doing my time.
In this prison.
Waiting for my body.

To catastrophically fail.

I scream.
And no one hears me.
So I cut the perormative ****.
Hurl about my verbal diahrrea.
***** it to the lights on the screen.
Safe in the liminal state.
Of I'm not really here.
I'm just wasting time

I only get happy when I'm in these.
Liminal trance states.
Where I can forget.
Linear time.
And,
It's worse than I ever told you.

In my whole life.
Cause.

Remember.

I didn't tell you.
A God ******.
Thing.

I crytpically write my fate.
With each cigarette.
Dying of pulmonary oedema.
An abstract aneurysm.

Some kinda blood clot.
And.
My pressure is high.

My lungs.
Black.

But God.
Won't let me.
Die.

So I hack up until I get the feeling.
Of vomiting in my lungs.
A torch song.
Dry hacking until.

It dislodges.
From these maladaptive.
Coping mechanisms.

Life in a nutshell.

Neurotically wistful about neotonous memories.
While your bad behaviour.
Takes its silver farthing from you.

A mockery of your former self.