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.

I was grim.
I  had malaise.
My listless revelry.
Brought me down.
In this.
One horse.
Town.

Sometimes it seems.
Like being arrested.
Is my life.

I love the fear and panic.
Of the next few moments.

Might decide your life.

Don't you just wanna.
Scream.
In everyone's.
Face.

I don't care.
Just.
Go away.

Somewhere along the way I got lost.
In these speechless intimacies.
In these hollow promises.
In these let down dilly dallying days

I feel less now when I'm older.
Just misanthropy.
Just self disgust.

I want to sleep.
Through my.
Tomorrows.

Waking up in a yesterday.
That was never there.
Some kinda nostalgia.
I have.
With drug addiction.
And violence.

Waking up has become.
The hardest thing I have to do.
I just feel.
Dead.

Alone is fine.
But, I can't describe the way.
I've been lately.
Other than.

Given up.
And.
A waste of food.

So, I don't eat.
Or try.

Self medicating.
Into that apocalypse.
Of how late is it?
Am I dead?

I remember thinking.
How strange it was.
That I felt peace.

Imagining.

Vomitting.

In their plates.

I disappear and hide in cracks.
With the knowledge.
That I always become a memory.
That lasts for a few months.
Somewhere else is so anonymous.
When you don't tell them where it is.
And, I just disappear.
Then you don't know me anymore.
And, you're replaced.
With another random human being.
I find no joy in.
To get bored of.

I was just made.
Broken.

My voice so soft.
You'll miss it.

Before it stops talking at all.

Gets lost in intoxicated.

They scream at me.
For not being.
What they want.

Filled with apathy.
Self destructing.

I want to scream.
At the top of my lungs.
Til the veins burst in my neck.
Blood streams from my throat.
Vocal chords shredded to itty bitty bits.
That I can't choke down.

I want to bellow into the aether.
Of what I imagine to be a caring.
Invisible.
Entity.

Let me off.
Get me out.

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.

What happened?

I thought we were going to write our names.
On ancient archaic architecture.
In Europe.
As we squated our way across.
The European Empire.
Looking for that good.
In everyone

We would have.
Made love with the Bohemian Eurotrash.
Like us.
Yearning for an adventure across the territory of that Cold War.
Like a Mutually Assured futile resistance.
Against those individual battles.
We fought.

In DDR uniforms.
Crusty jackets and holy clothes
With rabid Communists.
The bishops of our redemption.
A patched messiah.

We were going to storm the Bastille high on acid.
Make love under the Arch Triumph.
And, scream our victory to the ghosts in the Catacombs.
We  would bomb the old histories in every antediluvian city.
Set fire to our heritage, and laugh.
In that blazing dawn.
In that explosion.

In that could have been.

But,
We never really got passed the lawn.
We passed out on the side walk.
And vomited on our shirt.

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.

I can **** the confusion.
And paranoia.
With too many substances.
But, I can't turn it.
Off.

That's not.
Possible.

I can't get going.
On this horribly dull day.
I'm depressed.
As always.

And,
There's no hope.
No help.
No sympathy.
No nothing.

Not for me.

Just staring at a wall.
Distractions.
And.
Death.

As soon as I saw her.
I knew.
I couldn't look away.
And, that.
I should leave.

But, I went to her.
When she called.

I had too.

They seem to think.
That they're opinion on what was my real life.
Is actually it.
But, me in my ridiculous bravado.
My hyperbolic stories no one believes.
Am.
Telling.
The truth.

The memories never go away.
Except with.
A large dose.
Of drugs.

Tomorrow is terrifying.
In these wasted days.
Where I can't see a future.

The withdrawal.
Of tobacco.
Starving from habit.
Hypoglycemic psychosis.

Just.
Panic.

Just.
Dysfunction.

Just.
Abysmal.

I like to pretend.
That one day my life will be better.

More.
Normal.

I can't seem to manage.
The basics.
Of life.

I just wake up.
Collect my body parts.
And, lurch.
Forward.
To do nothing.
All day.

And, it's boring.
But, I don't know how to live.
Just.
Exist.