I have that impulse to scream.
To cry.
To get lost and caught up in that.
Explosion of emotion.

But, I don't.
I can't.
I turn it off and recede.
Into my schizoid understanding of reality.

No one notices me.
On mute.

Which is good.
I can try not to eat.
Or drink.

I don't have.
To be a disappointment.
As I rot alone.

Have you heard this before?
I'm so complicated.
I'm so complex.
I'm so hard to understand.
I'm just a vague nothingness.
That I write with words.
Expressing nothing.
But, my lack of originality.
My reliance on the emotion.
Of poor punctuation.

Maybe if I think through a thousand ways.
Of saying this.
I might find the one.
That's always right.
Instead of a stream of consciousness.
Designed to help me think.
Through a thousand ways.
To say this life.
Just, isn't enough.

I'm stuck there in some anonymous dilapidated chicken coup.
Rotten boards and peeling paint.
Vermin taking up residence in some dusty stuffy run down shack.
As the fields of wheat blow in my imagination.
Cause out here there's just tall grass.
And mummified corpses of varmits.
Skulls you're proud to find.
And some city boys getting tired of the spear grass.

And here I am in some nostalgic memory.
Driving tractors with my grandpa.
Playing in combines.
The smell of gasoline.
The wind knocking something against the wall.

I hope this dying memory collapses on me.
So I can forget it was so.
Long ago.

It seems that poetry has become.
A place to whine.
With form and rhythm.
Simply a minor concern.
In a sea of mediocre futile teenage angst.
Thousands of poorly written love poems.
And possession.
All of it mandated good.
By your own banality.
And fear that you aren't.
That good.

My addendum to you.

I don't care.
It's overall meaningless and futile.

So.
Whatever.
Just leave me alone.

They called them sin eaters.
Professional whipping boys.
The scape goats that would.
Eat the death the apple gave you.
For a dollar.
Spiritual ******.
Selling damnation.
For a tuppence.
And some bread.

The idioms of my persona fluctuate with time.
Some new intuition that speaks to your soul.
Which to me, is just,
An aesthetic.
An overall style.

It's always so late when I decide to wake up.
All you catch is my exit.

I can only express myself.
In incomplete sentences.
Broken up for.
Effect.

And, it pains me to think.
I'm wasting my life.
Or, so I'm told.
But it only hurts,
Because I don't care.
And, I'm supposed to.

Validate my existence.
By nursing my insecurities.
In your empathetic salvation.
Your divine concern.
A noble neuroses.
Fancy fallacy of form.
Your ideals.
Sacred sentiment.

Yet I'm but a stone.
Cold, distant, and alien.
Only moved.
With.
Force.

The emotions I've had.
Must miss me.
As I cast them aside.
And relied.
On myself.
With no need.
For, you.

If I could feel like you.
And trust the rest.
Then maybe.
I'd be normal.
But, that's never the case.
So, again.
I broke my hand.
And, the endorphines.
Made me feel better.
Than your concern.

I should **** that mouse.
****** the potential disease.
The fleas and the ****.

I should **** that mouse.
For sanitary reasons.
To satiate my blood lust.

I should **** that mouse.
As it taunts me and steals the food I lackadaisically throw on the ground.
Feeds its kids with parasitic need.

I should **** that mouse.
But I can't.
I don't want to.

Every day I wake up to the scratching.
Of parasites.
Swollen with blood and ravenous
The dull abrasive buzz of electrical devices.
Preventing me from sleeping.
Generating my insomnia.
Ash coats the front of my shirt.
My teeth are brown and broken.
My appetite is cripplingly nauseating.
I'm ill from malnutrition.
And I eat cigarette smoke and coffee.
While my lungs scream at me for breath.

I don't know what caring means anymore.
Desire to live.
Motivation.
These are as alien to me as three meals a day.
Or socializing.
Or work.
Or reasons to exist outside of the fear of annihilation.
I've seem to have gone beyond depression.
Into resignation.

I stare vacantly at my reflection.
What emotion am I supposed to fake to myself?
How do I make myself smile.
I know I'm lying.
It's no longer an urge for someone to understand..
Or hold me.
Or make it better.
It's an urge to get up the motivation to get out of bed.
Pointlessly greet the day.
Eat.
I'm running on the basics and I'm low on fuel.

I'm just here, brushing filth off of myself and wondering.
When was it that I didn't care.
About changing my torpor.
Into triumph.
When did this become acceptable?
Living in grime.
Starving.
Running from people and responsibility.
What did I do.
To become this desolate.
This, abominable.

Is this all I have.
Delaying death for one more day.
Surviving.
In terse translations of imperfection.
The sun, leering.
The trees, menacing.
And, I, found the abyss.
In this apathetic allusion.
Of actually living.

I'm a mouldy old country song.
Straining in the din.
Of a poorly lit room.
And the prescience.
Is impending.
An apocalypse.
In the tired warble.
Of an old crusty man.

Love me.
Please.
I've never had.
Anything that feels.
Quite.
Like this.
I'm losing it again.
Isolated in a private insanity.

I remember tomorrow.
Potential immanent.
The truth.
So far away.
And.
Fragile.
I guess something had to break.
Down inside of me.
And, now.
I'm losing everyday.
To passages.
Written in time.

I'm frustrated.
And.
Scared of tomorrow.
Cause it never turns out.
Like.
I want it to.
It just keeps keepin on.
While my head slowly
constricts itself into a
mad obsession with stuck.

I'll stop all this.
One day.
When I can't take it anymore.
My illness in isolation.
The constant disappointment.
Feverish frustration crushing my mind.
Into amorphous paste.
And, it won't matter.
Never did.