I never got that addendum.
You left.
Whispered into the night.
Howled at the moon.
I never needed any sort of reason.
To feel this bad.
Your two cents won't add up to much.

There were a few secret subtle moments.
I shared with you.
But.
Mostly you're just.
Dead and.
Gone.

Today.
An autistic man was playing the free piano.
Turning pages that weren't there.
Not twitching or mumbling to himself.
Not odd.
Composed

And

By God.
It was better than anything I'm capable.
Carved in his mind.
Beautiful.
For a moment.

No one likes a modern nomad.
No one, but the wind.
And the sound of his feet running away.
From something or other.

Rambling through those.
Anonymous towns.

People like landmarks.
Fading into the passing horizon.

Everything always.
Behind him.

I haven't sighed through enough suicide notes.
Or lost the will to speak.
An alogia of a life.
Never murmured.
Low enough.

I dunno.
Anymore.
That internal voice keeps.
Telling me to pass out.
Into another drug induced coma.
And listlessly fast forward.
To my death.

If I could do it all again.
I wouldn't
I'd nod out.
Before I was born.
And live my extermination.
Negated.
Never was.

It's.
What I'd prefer.

There's nothing in here.
Nothing worth saving.
There's nothing in anyone else.
Nothing worth knowing.

And, there's that dead stare.
I do.
When I'm in public.

Vacant.
Let down.

Every day I cough out more days.
I cut off of my life.
My protest against existence.
Slow suicide that seems to have caught up.

Sometimes you get confused.
At the terror of an immediate death.
A stroke.
Or a heart attack.

You can taste your rotten.
Breath.
Feel the oedema.

But, smile.
Getting lost in the delerium.
A lack of oxygen.
Euphoric decay.
The bodies defense mechanism.

And I rest well.
In the knowledge that relatively soon.
All those things.
That life I had.
That aborted life.
My lack of motivation.

And my isolation.
All my self destruction.
My abomination.

And, I'll curl up.
Shedding pounds like.
Bad experiences.
And dry up in the sun.

With each failing *****.
Each laboured breath.
I'm free.
I can fade away.

I'm washed clean.
Receding into the back ground noise.
That calm place.

Where nothing moves.

Everything in still.
And.
Constant.

You can rage against the storm.
But.
If you survive.
You get to rebuild.
In all its tedium.

I don't feel.
Like I deserve.
To be.
Happy.

One day you're bored.
You're worried about this.
Irrelevant problem.
Or the next.
Striving to get somewhere.
Maybe even making progress.

Then one day.
Out of the blue.
Like a warm breeze on a cold day.

You die.
Randomly.
And all your problems.
Mean nothing.
Anymore.

I'm not here to make you.
Happy.
In fact.
I won't even try.

This is how I cope.
With my demented.
Demonic despair.

The **** life.
I've led.

This is me dancing.
In.
The.
Kali Yuga.

I never wanted to grow up.
With aches and pains.
Poor posture.
An acrid abnormal hack.
Damaged nerves.
Deteriorating conditions.

Nah.
Not me.
I was expecting an exaggerated.
Night of narcotic negation.
Too many pills.
Too ******* bad.

Instead I became resilient.
A diamond ranting at the coal.
A piece of tin.
I just keep going.
Along with my mind.

Sometimes I feel.
Like.
Self immolation.

An internal.
Explosion.

Destroying myself.

I don't remember ever having a future.
That went beyond how high can I get today.
With the poverty drawn in my ***** clothes.
On those lazy hazy sunny days I just wanted to stop.
I can't recall thinking past right now.

I wasn't supposed.
To live this long.
I was supposed to die in my own personal catastrophe.
My own holy explosion.
Found in the gutter.
Face down.

It was some subtle suicide.
That only my lucky friends managed.
To do.

There's never been anything out here.
Nothing but the barking of coyotes.
Grass green, moss painted rocks, and spear grass.
Crickets singing you to sleep.
In the abysmal doldrums.
In.
The heart of the prairie.

We just.
Die.
And in our death.
Fulfill our destiny
There's nothing out here.
Just dying slowly.
And.
Self immolation.

All those hours.
On all those roads.
And, all the epiphanies.
The hope.

Are now behind me.

As I enter the city limits.
Of.
Compulsive escapism and distance.

I was never engaged.
With you.
Or felt something deep.
You just wrote me a story.
And I smiled.
I accepted it.
So I could be whatever.
You wanted me to be.

But,
I was and always will.
Be alone.
Talking to myself.
Instead of the idea of me.