Sometimes it feels like.
Everything is falling apart.
Into another cascade.
A catastrophic failure.

And.
Things don't get better.
They accrue loss, misery.
Helplessness.

Left in Pandora's Box.
After the hope.
Left.

Proteus.
Stole fire from the Gods.
Much like Raven who stole the sun.

And,
me,
I grovel in filth.
With my perfect hate.

Should I give that to you?

But, it's mine
to jealously covet.
My sacred ****** thoughts.
My apophenia.
My self loathing.
Sleeping til two.

No desire.
To be.
Awake.

Sighing these suicidal soliloquies.
I'm just biding my time.
Til I die.

Fighting off the impulse.
To just.

End it.

In my anonymous atrophy.

Into sleep.
I recede.
Every day.
An opaque .
Nostalgia.
For depression.
And other.
Muddling things.
But I can't sleep.
The whole day.
Through.
Anymore.
Tiredly waking up.
In a tomorrow.
Too late to really.
Do anything

I am an impulsive thought.
An unsafe thrill seeking.
Psychosis.
Where I stack the odds against me.
And,
Do the dumbest ****.
You'll ever see.

And I am comforted.
By the intensity of the fear.
The rush of embarrassment.
The guilt of regret.
Terror and absolution through.
What the **** did you just do Nolan?

I kicked the hornets nest.
I always do.

For you it's a travesty.
But for me.

At least I feel something.
Intensely.

Even though the morality.
Of living dangerously.
Flying from the seat of your pants.
Is tenuous.

Maybe you wanna be content.
Happy.
Chill.
Relaxed and responsible.

But me.
I want the electric feeling.
That everything.
Is falling apart.
As the panic sets in.

I like to play with fires.
Too big for something so small.

Like me.

Another test to pass.
More odds to manipulate.
From here to complete.
Certainty.
Of excess for its own sake.

Without hard headed obstinance.
How else do I transcend regret.
Shame.
Embarrassment.
If I don\t seek it out.

With my personal vendetta.
Against existence.
I will be the snake in the grass.
An undefined variable.

Unpredictable.

Babbling Bible Babel babble.
I deign to write a prayer.
To confusion.

Alas,
I don't understand.
The words coming out of my mouth.
So I stay silent.
Dance.
Recede into the rhythm.
Of some hypnotic thing.
Ceremonialize my broken thought patterns.

Always finding personal references to myself.
In the words someone wrote for.
Someone else.
But, it always means me.
It's always poignant.
Profound to the demands of right now.

I laugh.
At the catastrophe.
That has become my life.
What holy men are not schiophrenic?
Who among you.
Takes vows of poverty?
Sings to magpies.
Blesses mangy foxes.

And lives.
As a beast.