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

You stare out into those infinite horizons.
You see nothing.
No end.
To this stagnant desperation.
So, you chug the last of the whiskey.
Break the bottle against the truck.
And shoot something.

This is subduction.
This is desperation.
This is the void you fill with chaos.

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.

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

I don't care.
Just.
Go away.

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.

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.

I can't keep going on like this.
Shambling through life.
With nothing to show.
But an aging face.
And ash coating my hands

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.

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.

At a certain point.
You get beyond that.
Frustration.
And, enter into.
Resignation.

I can't get up the energy.
To be interested in your lack.
Of a personality.

No.
I don't ****.
I just drift into rhythm.
And melody.

Wait to die.

Sleeping til six.

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.

Oxytocin and dopamine.
Are necessary for.
Love.
And, your emotions.
Can be turned on and off.
With poor diet.
And, less drugs.

I'm failing at life.
And I want the words to stop.
These useless words.
These imprecise and poorly phrased attempts at connection
These paltry words.
These short stout blocky words.
The words like drivel pouring out my face.

I woke up in right now.
When I was really back there.
Apprehensive and afraid.

Nervous that nothing would pan out.

Never did.
Never was gonna be anything magnificent.
Not even mediocre.
Just a failed.
Life.

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.

I see myself.
Sitting there.
Wondering how to respond.
To the way that you're smiling.

So.
I awkwardly bare my teeth.
Trying no to stare in your eyes.
With my cold.
Dead.

Confused.
Eyes.

Trying to fake an emotion.
Anything.
Human.