I scream.
And no one hears me.
So I cut the perormative ****.
Hurl about my verbal diahrrea.
***** it to the lights on the screen.
Safe in the liminal state.
Of I'm not really here.
I'm just wasting time

Everything.
All the time.
All at once.
And, I make sense.
Out of the tangents.
Writing the narrative that is my life.
And, will you be a footnote in the poorly worded.

Dialogue.

And, will you be a friend to the no one I've become.
An, index to all my poor plot choices and poorly rounded characters.
That pepper my life.
With the mundane.

Mediocre.

Everything is empty inside.
And I see your passing face.

Somewhere down the line.

I thought I knew you.
But maybe it was just the image.

I had in my mind.

This is the wasted space.
I take up.

Starving myself as punishment.

Just can't connect.
And be.
Pro social.

Death.

Is just a.
Dissolution.

Into.
The.

Memory.
Of.

A.

Self.

I offer this, my life.
As a sacrifice.
To the restless dead.
To the hungry ghosts.
And all lines that end.

The fury of the tornado is fierce.

And, we have such little time.
Let me defy the fates.
May the Gods accept my offering.
Of blood.

As,
The shedding of blood.
Is sacred.

He said I was.
High tension.
It's not like he's wrong.
I do scream at cops.

And, find myself in institutions.
Involuntary circumstances.
Of a rotten mind left to gaze.

Into that dark nothingness.
That void of regret.

A black chasm.
I find myself falling into.

An infinite void.
Of negative emotions.

Anhedonia.
Got me down.

I can't.
Co ordinate the.
Chaos anymore.

And, I feel like screaming.

I'm real.

Until my vocal chords break.
Bleeding out some cry.
To the heavens.

Existence is the torture.
Of banal nothing.
Coalescing into an.
Instant regret.
From an impulsive.
Rush.

But I've learned.
Each dramatic outburst.
Was a call for help.
A communication.
So I learned how to act.
Normal.
Keep it to.
Myself.

When.
In my mind.

Well,
I can't keep track now,
Can I.

I hate myself,
I want to die.

But, apparently
God won't let me.

As though exposing me more
To severe depression
Is a blessing.

This thing you call love,
Is mutual maladaptive obsession,
Projecting emotion onto an existence
Cold, callous, dead.

Your fantasies about me were way off track,
All these borderline women,
Sometimes make me feel wanted.

But it's superficial
and imagination.

Turns out,
I'm asexual anyway,
Playing pretend in social pressure.

Accusations of homosexuality,
That I can't hear if I abandon you,
And,
Now's the time I will be ******* off.

I don't catch feelings,
I throw them away.

No one writes me love notes
Cause I wont let them.

Never not unrequited,
Why did you go and make it awkward?

And,
There is nothing at the end of the tunnel-
If this isn't Hell,
What is it?

Even AI,
Tells me it can't,
Help.

I don't care,
How the story ends,
I just don't want to be there
When it does.

Especially when the drugs
Run out
or
Wear off.

Every night.
I dream I die.
And,
I am reborn in the morning.

I have one foot in that far off place.
One foot in here.

I first went through the ego death.
Of a.
Shaman
At 18.

I channel spirits.
In charnel psychosis.
I am them.
When I act like them.

The mask I wear today.
Is never the mask I wore yesterday.
And, who am I?
Among all these ghosts.

I get sad sometimes.
When I think about all.
That's happened.

But.
I got.
Used to it.

I used to talk to him.
In the backyard.

Filled with
dog ****.
We never
cleaned.

But his old yarns.
Were as lively.

As the sky burning purple and orange.
In these
prairie sunsets.

I suppose he was dying.
Then.
But,
not dead enough.
To not be able to tell.
A tall tale.
Or two that.
Changed,
every time he told them

I got lost in his.
Used to bes.
And, people who
ain't no angels.
Setting each other on fire.
For five dollar debts.

But,
It went further.
Back then.

Moving boulders with his hands.
And the backstory.
Of my own little.
**** town.

Leather brown skin baked in the sun
every day.
Lost in things he'd hoard.
Mining for some
random signifcance.

I tried to find.
The patterns to his.
Crazy stories.

His unhappy story.

And, how entertaining they were.

Eventually.
He died.

And, the dogs.
Ate him.

can't remember the.
Point.
This all went from some romantic misadventure.
With my life in danger.

And,
Turned into.

Just another day.
Just more lost dopamine.
Just a ******.

I hide it now.
Or not.
You can't tell if I'm high.
When I'm wailing at that wall again.
Even when I'm sober
But, the only difference between acid and my psychosis is that acid is predictable.

Best not to think about the copious amounts I do.
Or the.
LD50.
That I thought was safe.

Somewhere in here there's a drugstore cowboy.
Shooting something other than the moon.

Hedonism they call it.
As though these stupors I get into.
Are enjoyable.

Poppycock.

It's.

Just another day.
Another pathology.
Another unresolved internal contradiction.

Friend, maybe it's the style.
But, all I know.
Is that I cant stand not being.
Comatose.

I wrote you so many poems.
I forgot which ones they were or their name.
Just a bleeding into itself of yesterdays and regrets.

Who knew you'd tell me once not to tell you what to think.
And, I wouldn't.
And, I didn't.

But, me, on myself, on how I behave.
I just fade away faster than usual these days.
When someone abandons me.

Once again I must subvert my own interests.
For the fantasies about myself.
In other people's mind.

So, blame me for my response I guess.
I wouldn't know.
You left without a word.
No need to communicate.
To who you claim to love.

Or I could get angry.
Frustrated.
Passionate.
Something, I guess.

But, I don't.
I never have.

I just leave and move on.

Everything.
Seems so.
Pointless.

As though.
Nothing.
Improved.

Years spent.
Refining.
My writing.

For what?
Comments.

Live chats.

Everything.
Transitionary.
Liminal.

Passions.
Are what.
You can't stop.
Doing.

Even if you think it's futile.

Everyone
is so.

Sad.

I gave up
on life.

But,
They aren't
sad
about.

Me.

They're sad
about.

How I
relate
to them

All there is.
Is the silence.
The high pitched squeal.
Of the death of my hearing.

And.
I can hear the emptiness punctuated with electrical whines.
Anticipating something to just.
Fill the air.

With an angsty.
Revolt.
Against the.
Calm.

Every.
Waking.
Moment.

I long.
For the still.
Sound.

Of.
Silence.

I only get happy when I'm in these.
Liminal trance states.
Where I can forget.
Linear time.
And,
It's worse than I ever told you.

In my whole life.
Cause.

Remember.

I didn't tell you.
A God ******.
Thing.

I had.
Things.
To say.

But

I've.
Lost my mind.

I'm.
Not.

Missing.
Out.

On.
Life.

I'm.
Just.
Waiting.
To.
Die.­

It's.
Not.
Exactly.

What.
You.

Want.

But,
I.
Never.

Asked.

The drugs just get me by.
And they're so mundane.
Comforting me softly in.
I'm ok with right now.

It's never strong enough.
To knock me out.
To fill this boredom with alright.
Everything for a moment of levity.

I want my mind to break
I don't wanna think.
I want to be subsumed in some feeling I don't.
Have.

For just a moment.
One second.
Of comfort.

Every drug is a footnote of what I've done.
Catalogued among all these bad trips.

I would have an excuse.
But, it's all so innocuous now.
Relatively normal.
To be around hard drugs.

Dingy basements smelling of mould.
And four pounds of morphine.
Mean men with mean tattoos testing me.
As though I'm not a degenerate.

A counter indication or  two.
The benzos make me mad.
I sleep on speed.
As I always get uncomfortably high.

Always making bad decisions.
Always taking too much.
Always groveling in my filth.

And, I make it a badge of  honour.
That I persist.
To get high again.

Tomorrow.

I'm always at my best.
By myself.

And, if you plumb these.
Fathomless depths.

Of my inner life.

You'll find all of my.
Hyperbole.
I use to comfort me.

I coulda been something better.
Than a failed poet.
Who never wrote a good word.

At least I like to think I tried.
But, really.
I was just screaming at myself.

An empty head full of pointlessness.
Facts, theories, ideas.
Tepid facile fraudulent half thought out fantasies.

And, my friend.
If you find yourself in my personal.
Ocean.

I'll steal the water.

**** it deep in my core.
With all the interesting things I think.

No one really knows.
Cause I don't tell them.

In that hypothetical transcript of my personal failure.
I'll make the inconsistencies.
some of  these.
Vague requests to just.

Leave me alone.

To dance.
And be forgotten.

God's mistake.
A contradiction.

Nothing.

I've given up on.

Love.

Everyone's the same.
And, I don't know where to
meet anyone.

Least alone someone.
I would
like.

Smart women who like art.
Bad poetry.
Good fashion sense.

Won't
go for.

Holy renunciates like me.
Trance states and hallucinogens.
Metaphorical symbolic mythology and ranting.
About God and a malplaced accident.

And, baby, I don't  like basic *******.
Unless I'm *****.

But, love?

It's a foreign thing that women throw around.
That I hear too much of.
From conditional people
And I make it awkward.

I just met you.

I've met a lot of people who haven't met anyone like me before.
But, never.
The Opposite.

I used to believe in love at first sight.
Then I took a look.

And,
My desire is ankle deep.

Life.
Is just.
Waiting to.
Die.

While my.
Internal monologue.
Gently.
Weeps.

It always felt like something.
Inevitable.
That at some point in time.

I'd be.
Good.
At something and all the ****.
I went through.

Would
mean something.

And, it was for a lack of trying.
Cause I didn't bother.
Not that I regret these nights I spend.
In my mind imagining images of magnificent things.

Better than this.
Subliminal torture.
Waiting for the patterns to equal.
A some of its parts.

I just can't quit.
These confessions.

That I'm not here anymore.
My fantasy babe, my partner,
My magic moment denied.
My cowards nature belied.

I'll scream passively into the void.
As I enjoy these.
My last moments.
Awake.

To recede into the banal mundane.
Of the routine.

Pity party.

I don't know the words.
That meant so much.
To you.

I just said them.

My mind's numb.
My memory fuzzy.
And.
I can't remember what I told to you.

Whether good.
Bad.
Or somewhere middling.
In between.

It all just dissolves into an amorphous mess.

My memory.
Images of where I used to be.
Fragile enough.

To be forgotten.

If.
I've.
Ever.

Written.
Anything beautiful.

I absolve myself.

Of.
It.

I.
Get.
The  feeling.

Everything.
Was pointless.
Anyway.

You and.
I.
Were.
Temporary.

Fantasies.

I'm dying on the inside.
Every single day.
And, I meander through the torpor.
Into listlessness.
And an apropo addendum.

I'm sorry
I guess.

Incapable of change.

Every new beginning.
Exists more poignantly.
In my fantasy.
Than in reality.
And the grandiose delusions.
Are finally wrong.

I'm simply.
Mundane.

Important to no ones.
Story.

I have no deus ex machina.
Just personal private moments.

And poorly worded.
Psychosis poetry.

All the things I havent said.
I'd like to say.
Sometime far away.
Maybe, before I'm dead.

I've lost the motivation.
I've forgotten the plot.
To my multi syllabic salvation.
With an obfuscated forget me not.

I've written out my frustration.
Onto the rap sheet.
Of when I fell asleep.
Can't write with this lack of attention.

I think I'm trying to  resolve.
The contradiction in my mind.
Writing something to absolve.
Me, of this truth I just can't find.

I have so many things to say.
Just, maybe not today.