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.

Just another ran down day,
More sitting around
Calling it work.
Being productive and doing
Nothing

Love tries to ossify people.
Into that rush of chemicals.
And keeping them just like that time.
You looked a little bit too long.
And, it was more than relaxed on your face.
Cause you couldn't control what you were doing.
Or the words coming out.
Of your mouth.

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.

I can't be crazy to other people.

If I am.
The beautiful what could be.
Dies.

And, it turns out.

I'm a rabid loner.
Who cant get attached.

My grandma was a basket baby.
Living through the revivals.
Held in tents.
Never dreaming of anyone else.
Outside of the farm.
Or the family.
Or the dancehall.
One small novel.
In the backwoods.

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

Be careful.
Your passion.
Doesn't burn them out.
To the point they malfunction.
And, you can't connect.

I don't want love.
It's not functional.
And, it always ends up with.
Acting like I want to stay.

When I'm just there.

For the food.
And the house.
And the shared ****.

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.

Eventually the mystique.
Of not working.
Wears off.

Pointless conversations with cray people.
Who are usually high and looking.
For a way to **** or rob you.
Get old.

One day you wake up from that rebellious.
Romantic.
Utopia.
Of good times.

And, you're missing your teeth.
Nothing in common with.
People you used to be.

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 feel nothing these days.
As empty as these wind swept dismal grey prairie days.
I find myself in.

It's really just an absence.
Of life.
A catatonic cowboy stuck in yesterday.
Longing for release from the boredom.
Of right now.

Tomorrow seems like an incomprehensible impossibility in this liminal infinite time.
Trying frantically to ossify in right here.
This thought.
This pure.
Unadulterated.
Moment.
Out of time.

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.

The only time I experienced.
Something beautiful.
Something magical.
A moment where I was caught up in some.
External force.
Was when.
I stopped.
Trying to find it.

I wonder if it hurts more.
To other people.
That I'm not scared to open up.
I just don't want to.

Not with them.

Sorry.

Recurring themes.
Reappear

I can't scream through these.
Collapsing lungs.
And dying ambitions.

I can't muffle the constant barrage.
Of die.
Die, and in this glorious emptiness.
Forget.

Everything.
Existence extinguished in a low gurgle.

My last breath.

Release.

I have abandoned my life.
For an escape.
From my bad decisions.
My lack of privacy.
And.
My own mind.

I yearn for irrelevant.
Laughter.
Something fun.

Instead.

I just blissfully drift.
Into my idea.
My abstraction.

Independent of reality.

You read enough passion.
In these words for someone else.
That you don't know.

You didn't see a twinkle.
Trust me, all you saw, was.
A stray thought about where.

The best cigarette butts are.

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

My fingers are stained that brown colour you only develop from chainsmoking yourself away from alive.
And blissfully.
Succinctly, into.
I'll be dead by tomorrow.

Optimism doesn't suit me.
As I exist.
As a mote of dust.
In some rundown.
Abandoned.
House.
The low glow of lamplight.
And classic rock.
Stuck in my personal.
Let down.

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.

After enough letdowns.
You give up.
Cause all your hopes ever give you.
Is a bad feeling.
And, fatalistic destinies.
Which in itself.
Is always.
Worthless.

So why.
Bother.

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.

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.

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.

In these in-between neurotic phases I wonder what went wrong with me.
When did I stop living.
Tomorrow too far away.
Today too mundane.
And I have a long list.
Of could have beens.