I'm safe in this room.
As I ossify my dysfunction.
With more excuses.

I've run out of time.
To catch up with life.
Suicide.
Seems so appealing.

The mountain won't show you.
Any intrinsic value.
Besides the difficulty.
To get to the top.

I'm trapped in that constant motion.
Held over from homelessness.
Thinking I always need to leave.
Wherever I am.
Chain smoking past available.
Into bad habits.
And not wanted.
Just a random.
Piece of trash.
That salvages itself.

Beauty sloughs off.
Like water bloated skin.
That monstrosity we've become.
That corpse.
Bloated with hubris.
Giving off gas.

Me.
I'm as still.
As that marble.
They sheathed you in.
To steal.
Your soul.

And these eyes.
They penetrate.
With my cold.
Dead.
Stare.

Some nonsense.
As an obituary.
Some kinda association.

I'd like to say it hurts.
This waste.
That I am.

This feeble disappointment.
When I coulda been.
Something better.
Than absent.
Apathetic.

Regretting.
The overdoses.
Never crossed that cusp.
Into darkness.
Into unfathomable.
Depressions.
Struggling to breathe.
Suffocated on sedated solutions

Gone.
Too far to come back.
Past rapid eye movement.
Into a dilapidated.
Sunken flesh.
Make up on a corpse.

I'd like to hope.
I'll be.
There.
In Elysium's dream.
Of something more.
Than decomposing.
Brown oxidized blood stains.
******* myself.
Pale, dead.
Eyes.

Blunted ambitions.
Neurotic.
Dysfunction.

I want to sleep.
Through my.
Tomorrows.

Waking up in a yesterday.
That was never there.
Some kinda nostalgia.
I have.
With drug addiction.
And violence.

Cigarettes never burn.
Enough.
So I rip off the skin.
And, throw in some salt.

Cauterized.
Sterile.

As some hippy.
Tries to talk to me.
And, all I want to do.
Is explode.

Into nothingness.
Despair.
Fear.
Trembling.

I'm obsessively repeating it in my head.
The regret.
The shame.
The urge to die.

When I think of all the things.
I just.
Didn't do.

Wasting my life for nothing.
Conversations reduce.
To a few grunts.

I can't keep going on like this.
Shambling through life.
With nothing to show.
But an aging face.
And ash coating my hands

I'm absent from my life.
A phantom that only.
Exists in cyberspace.

Constantly on the cusp of finding.
Some new solution.
To old problems.

But, never pulling through.
I don't succeed.
I just keep on.
Keeping on.

I want to scream.
At the top of my lungs.
Til the veins burst in my neck.
Blood streams from my throat.
Vocal chords shredded to itty bitty bits.
That I can't choke down.

I want to bellow into the aether.
Of what I imagine to be a caring.
Invisible.
Entity.

Let me off.
Get me out.

I wanted to be a beautiful.
Free form poem.
When I was younger.

A poignant well put saying.
That touched someone.
Who recognized.
Something inside.

And now,
I just want a job.

I wanna get lost in that.
Could have been.
We thought we had.
Tomorrow.
Just, a little ways away.
Someday.

I can't seem to manage.
The basics.
Of life.

I just wake up.
Collect my body parts.
And, lurch.
Forward.
To do nothing.
All day.

And, it's boring.
But, I don't know how to live.
Just.
Exist.

I hate her.
Because I've never.
Seen,
Anyone.

As beautiful.

And, I can't control.
The way I act.
Even though.

I know.
Better.

There's nothing left.
But that low dull buzz.
Of snow.
On a static screen.
And my mind.
Trying to find a reason.

I see myself.
Sitting there.
Wondering how to respond.
To the way that you're smiling.

So.
I awkwardly bare my teeth.
Trying no to stare in your eyes.
With my cold.
Dead.

Confused.
Eyes.

Trying to fake an emotion.
Anything.
Human.

Tomorrow is terrifying.
In these wasted days.
Where I can't see a future.

The withdrawal.
Of tobacco.
Starving from habit.
Hypoglycemic psychosis.

Just.
Panic.

Just.
Dysfunction.

Just.
Abysmal.

I like to pretend.
That one day my life will be better.

More.
Normal.

I hate my face.
I hate my body.
I hate being conscious.
It just reminds me.
I'm alive.
And real.
And I've got so long to wait.
To die.

Waking up has become.
The hardest thing I have to do.
I just feel.
Dead.

Alone is fine.
But, I can't describe the way.
I've been lately.
Other than.

Given up.
And.
A waste of food.

So, I don't eat.
Or try.

I want.
To be.
Normal.

I'm not gonna make it.
Passed that line.
Into normal.
And all the responsibilities.
I'm not capable.
Of having.

So, instead.
It's just sheer panic and trying.
Not to die.
Through these invisible meaningless.
Meals.  I eat.
To keep myself alive.

And the acid burn of my.
Aborted attempts.
At being something more.
Than anger.
Frustration.
Walking through anonymous streets.
Chased out of the pubilc.

With no one.
To talk to.

I can't think.
Anymore.

Just like how I stopped.
Wincing when I was in pain.

It's a communication.
And understanding.

Of something negative.

I want to die.

I gave up on.
The basics.
Of life.

Now, I'm not sad.
I'm just.
Not here at all.

And, even if these sensations.
Stop.

I'll still be stuck.
Ten years too late.
My body breaking down.

And, my age.
Etched in my face.

Why bother.
Waking up tomorrow.
When it's the same thing.
Same dysfunction.

Always unwell.

What happened?

I thought we were going to write our names.
On ancient archaic architecture.
In Europe.
As we squated our way across.
The European Empire.
Looking for that good.
In everyone

We would have.
Made love with the Bohemian Eurotrash.
Like us.
Yearning for an adventure across the territory of that Cold War.
Like a Mutually Assured futile resistance.
Against those individual battles.
We fought.

In DDR uniforms.
Crusty jackets and holy clothes
With rabid Communists.
The bishops of our redemption.
A patched messiah.

We were going to storm the Bastille high on acid.
Make love under the Arch Triumph.
And, scream our victory to the ghosts in the Catacombs.
We  would bomb the old histories in every antediluvian city.
Set fire to our heritage, and laugh.
In that blazing dawn.
In that explosion.

In that could have been.

But,
We never really got passed the lawn.
We passed out on the side walk.
And vomited on our shirt.