Every day I want to die
But I can never find the right way
To elucidate it,
As if I figure out its lexicon
It will go away.

How many words do you need
For death.

How many impossible overdoses
Do you need to survive.

How many dismal dreary days
To slump through,
Do I need to experience.

Isolation.
Emptiness.
Loneliness.

Pointless useless mouth I am.
I despise myself.

Seems like for me suicide is forbidden
Some blessing of life
This is.

There is no redemption arc.

Loneliness is a temporary thing.

Comes and goes with bad dreams
Of people I used to know.

I don't think someone else
Can fulfil me
Or bring me peace.

It would just be nice
If another ******
Would take the time
To tell me about their day.

I never told you I could
Sing.

I showed you.

And,
You still didn't
Believe me.

So I chose
To serenade
The silence.

With my discordant
Choir.

It's not acceptable
To simply end.
I want to be erased.
From the book of life,
I want to be retroactively
Annihilated.

It is not sufficient to die.
It is only sound if I never.
Was.

Depression subsumes
Me into
Sloth.

It's hard getting up the motivation
To live
When everything is so bleak.

So empty.

These memories of people I used to know
I forgot.

My will to be
Evaporating.

Death would be a restful sleep.

Meaning reduced
To listlessness.

I can't find anything
Meaningful to say
To you
my former self.

And, if life is living the same story
Over and over.
I'd like this one
To end.

I've memorized the script.
The plot is atrocious
And I'm long past dead.

At the curtain call.

How many 20 year old men
Do the baby boomers get to
Send to die for your
petty
conflict.

Your brothers war.

How many armchair generals
Throw an already dying people
Into the meat grinder.
So mail order brides
Can make mystery meat borscht instead
Of fighting their own *******

War.

From the comfort of what's apparently not my home.

What's one more paranoid delusion
To throw on the pyre
Of my imagined self.

I thought I'd notice
My hallucinations.
But, they're just banal
Misunderstandings my eyes make.
Mistranslated apophenia
Glossolalia,
Babeling nothing out my mouth.

And, I hide in the dark,
In a crevice in reality
Alone.
Buffered from the pertubations.
Of the chaos.
Away from other people.

Away from stiumulus.
Flickering unconnected neon signs,
Hearing speech in the percolating nothing of the din,
Flashbacks and other intrusive.
Thoughts.

Like, is this real?
Was that a memory?
Or a dream I had one day
Awake.

I wish my mental health
Wasn't so discombobulatedly asymmetrical
Or poorly written.

Thinking I'm so deep,
Profound, well put
Together.

If only I had the chance
Or motivation
To fail.

Some day all of this
Will make sense.

Or I'll get lost in losing my ability
To keep a thought longer
Than a calling card.

But who am I to hand out
References.
To something beyond what I am.

I've lost all the eloquence
I had in my youth.
No more soliloquies to sing to Shakespeare.
No pretty polished words
Rolling out of my mouth in verbose patterns.
Permutated with proper punctuation.
Enunciated ecstasy, syntactically strewn all around.
A cluster **** of cleverly constructed.
Sentences.

Philologically
These Latin rites and roots sound so.
Pompous.
Derivative.

What's my politics of the English language?
No,
Not me.
I prefer new slang written on old scripts.

And.

I always thought French etymology
Was exquisite.
Until I got lost in the suffixes piling up
Ontop of the prefixes.

I suppose it's
Better, than the parochial slang

That
Recently I've been saying
Dim rugged dull and dreary
Stodgy, little words.

I blurt out my base roots of Saxons.
I speak of earth and dirt and yeomen
In my lowly German.

My

Monosyllabic mutterings of a ***** making it up.
In grunts and moans
And ugly things
Glottal stops.

One axiom.
One goal.
Barking out a reduction.
Me, and,
Brevity's sake.

So let's be blunt.
I'm too old for tomorrows.
Hard to have a midlife crises
When the first half was already spent
On tempting an overdose.
To spite the drugs.
Sung in an apropos song.

And it's kinda late for teenage angst.
When I grow up
Has been happening for two
Decades

So
Why do I still feel this way?
So strange and unusual
Fumbling through my words
Like an incompetent juggler
A lexical masterpiece
Clogged in Glossolia.

Now,
Don't worry, friend.
I don't even understand what I'm
trying to say.
Whether profound
Or pathetic.

Certainly
I don't take it back.

I don't mean to.
But I can't care about anyone I hurt.

The broken hearts.
The let downs.
The impossible to remember intimate moments.
The love.
The promises of safety and permanence.

It all means nothing to me.
Just time.
And distance.

Ensconced in right now.

Strain to see the.
Light at dusk.
Or you'll miss it.
Your last.
Chance.

The only one you get.

I just wanted to move back to that.
Emptiness in my childhood.
The irresponsibility.
Wasting time as a due course.
Sublimated by schedules.
Organised by no one.

Nostalgia is
That vacant stare.
The flat effect of forgetting.

The wind whistling in my ear.
And old adages.
Old wives tales told
To naive men
To help me fall
Into subtle slumber.

These purile placid waters.
Are dreary, dull, and depressing.
Rhythmically lapping against my barren shore.
The obligations of my regular raucus routine
Are unsatisfying
As the still waters linger in staid stagnation.
The excitement.
Evaporated.


These calm terse trade winds
Don't have much to seeemingly say.
Festering in this standing water
The pent up pinnacle of radical resignation.
To this biohazard of my life
Where the smell
Is as pungent.
As the mildew makes me mouldy.

The cascade of pent up emotion and energy.
Cusps over the pinnacle.
As the friction from the frozen emotions.
Deigns to break the dam.
Of the calm.

This is discouraging.
Dreary dismal boredom.
I crave excitement.
Bustling life and algae blooms.
The uncertainty of getting lost in the frantic energy of entropic disorder
The irregular arrangement of intrinsic energy and form.
Entices me with promises of
A sudden subliminal bursting
Forth from the chaos of life.
Into my own subjective sonnet of
Kamikaze choreography.
Music dripping with ******.
Kaleidoscopic cacophony.
The dischordant choir.
Singing the sanctified song of self sundering.

I pray

For Dionysian ecstasy.
The feeling of flying without wings
Light headed and lit like a sentry on the horizon
Dizzy on the dangerous down ***** drugs.
Weaving in and out of reality.
A phantom pharmacological pyre burning with spontaneous combustion.
I want the frantic fury of a fragile furious fiasco.
I want the sublimation of the self as a Saiva sadhu
Avatara of too much stimulation.
A caffeinated catastrophe.

The raucus road of righteous rage.
Leads to squander and squalor.
To trauma and decay.
It all leads to death.
Funneling me into
Minutes away from the 2 seconds too short.
Accidental overdose on purpose
Apathy announcing my altered state
I made a deal with the devil and the payment's due.
The deflation of failure.

The pain calms me down.

I'm living in that
One overgrown pauper's grave.
Where
Even beautiful boughs of begonias.
Dry up into dust.
Passion won't push me through.
This sudden mood swing.

So.
I keep at the Apollonian ordering of chaos and revel in the frustration of simple.
Altering this abject asymetry of forms into Euclidean geometry.
Predictable boundaries for
Classifying this chaotic confusion
This scatterbrain lawless lolly gagging
Into something sensible.
Something, coherent.
Rational.

Order.

And I'm less inspired.
More frustrated that I have to
Wade
Through all this linguistic graffiti.
Sprayed haphazardly across my neurosis.
Feeling the frustration of
The energetic editing that edifies
My fragile ego.

But I'm a husk of an interesting person.
My addendum is short, curt,
And concise.
I'm more genuine when I'm blunt.
More authentic when I'm apathetic.

As usual though.
I
Failed
At being anything.
Other than confusing.
Seemingly desperate.

I'm always.
Giving up.
Annihilation natters at my mind.
It bores into my skull.
That familiar earwig.
Lying about its nature.
A disappointment to fear.

Potential is better than failure.
Who I could be would be anything
Other than what I am.
A failed dream.
Like my unfinished books.
Like my drug induced amnesia.
Like all those missed opportunities.
All those possibilities slipping through my hands.
Each fantastic potentiality getting more and more.
Uncertain.

I start off strong
Then taper out into.

Unfulfilling.
Low energy.
Dysjointed from reality.
Forcing myself to review my past.
In these irregular self criticisms.
Longing for meaning in whatever I throw against the wall.

Afterall.
I understand my own glossolalia.

Happiness.
Is just a
Delerium.
I feel as it washes over me.
When I'm too high on.
Magic mushrooms.
Or acid.

I breathe poetry.
Like chlorine gas.
It infects my being.

And,
Who am I to extinguish it in you.
I'd like more of it.

To be honest.
More intimate moments.
Immortalized in a small scale.
Voyeurism.

Anything.
To see.
Anyone bearing their soul.
For that one moment.

Of.

I been there.
I done that.
I'm here with you.

In the static of self doubt.
I love poetry.
It courses through my veins.
Everything is a twenty lined poem.
Struggling to be born.
In the mind of someone.
Living.

You.

You should write more.
I like the threads out here.
In the darkness.

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.

One day.
I'll take a bitter pill.
And never see you.

Tomorrow.

I will abide
forever.

In eternal.
Emptiness.

I am inundated with the sacred script.
Of suffering.
The austerities of.
Starvation and self abnegation.
I am a blasphemy.
Darkness that never wanted.
The light.

And, who are you
to break.
My ritual of
self destruction.

If I wish to offer myself up as a sacrifice.
For the freedom to be an *******.
Then I will.
As I ignore your wisdom.
For the knowledge of the self.
I am I.
Bathed in night.

The drums beat.
The veil is lifted.
I sulk among the spirits.
Crawling in the cracks.
Of creation.
With the creeping things.

And none.
Will let Scorpion cross the river.
So, Scorpion stings.
Floats over on a corpse.
Of prettier spirits.
Triumphant and divine.
Scorpion is as Scorpion does.

And,
he asks no quarter.

Just as love never quits.
So does the dark wish to engulf.
The light in its megalithic.
Strength.

And,
dance.
Cause the venom.
Animates you.

Never listen to tricksters.
When they tell you they're good.

We're hungry.

I'm just waiting to die.
Passing the time.
From here to then.
In a miserable way.
Sublimated into a dream.
Perpetually unconscious.

As I testify before God.
They are nothing but passing memories.
I forgot too soon.
To really get attached.
And, the images change.
The scenery recedes.
I find myself somewhere else.
Knowing, only.
That I'm always right here.
And you.
Just a rotating cast of people.
I don't need.