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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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

Imagining.

Vomitting.

In their plates.

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

Run boldly into the redundant.
Bravely wave the flag.
Of dying arts.

We will ride the corpse.
Of inconsequential.

Imperfect.

Until we break through inconsequential.
Into a meaning.
Expressed in a dead language.

A thought you had.
That you couldn't express.

Don't go softly into that still night.

Die hard.
Leave a mark.

Reside in the faults.

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

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

Might decide your life.

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.

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 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.

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

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.

My life has been wasted.
On wasting time.
Waiting for a wonder.
To weave into my life.

A
Better.

Story to sell.
A soliloquy or something.
More succinct.
Some kinda so called solution.

To.
My.

Feeble mind frantically.
Finding faults.
With my forlorn failure.
My fragile forgetfulness.

It's
Just.

My memory keeps me moving.
Measuring the minutes.
Making me melancholy.
And meaning left.

Nowhere to be
Found

My life is over.
I live on borrowed time.
Death will be a release from this.
Ennui.
Self loathing.
Sadness.