I'm alone.
Always alone.
And the loneliness is just amnesia.
Forgetting how people are.
And how.
I want them to be.

I feel like exploding.
But I haven't a fuze.

And I've been thinking about leaving.
But I haven't a place to go.

And this alogia is getting out of hand.
But I've lost the will to speak.

The frustration builds.
The boredom grows.
All I do is nod off.
Into a fearful.
Rest.

Every day I cough out more days.
I cut off of my life.
My protest against existence.
Slow suicide that seems to have caught up.

Sometimes you get confused.
At the terror of an immediate death.
A stroke.
Or a heart attack.

You can taste your rotten.
Breath.
Feel the oedema.

But, smile.
Getting lost in the delerium.
A lack of oxygen.
Euphoric decay.
The bodies defense mechanism.

And I rest well.
In the knowledge that relatively soon.
All those things.
That life I had.
That aborted life.
My lack of motivation.

And my isolation.
All my self destruction.
My abomination.

And, I'll curl up.
Shedding pounds like.
Bad experiences.
And dry up in the sun.

With each failing *****.
Each laboured breath.
I'm free.
I can fade away.

I'm washed clean.
Receding into the back ground noise.
That calm place.

Where nothing moves.

Everything in still.
And.
Constant.

I'm just bored.
Distracting myself from the knowledge.
It all.
Means.
Nothing.

I endure for I am hard.
Yet the struggles are never easy.
Always rock bottom.
And, I'm assured this is it.

Torment.
Loss.
Absolution.

So many restarted lives I'm the Buddha of malcontents.
Irrational fear.

Isolation.

All the drawn out strained things.
I'm an avatara of falling apart.
The gestalt of sloth.

A zeitgeist.
For failure.

What's the point of a whispered.
Half spoken.
Last sigh.
To the darkness.
And the cold.
Still.
Night.

Today.
An autistic man was playing the free piano.
Turning pages that weren't there.
Not twitching or mumbling to himself.
Not odd.
Composed

And

By God.
It was better than anything I'm capable.
Carved in his mind.
Beautiful.
For a moment.

Joy has never really come to me.
That easily.
But, when I'm happy.
It feels so sublime.
And, I cling to it.
Like a jealous.
Lover.

She sings syllogisms.
That no one knows.
But her, the wind, and my imagination.
Where she's beautiful.
Frozen in a good memory.

A lovely smile.

And.
Here I am.
Reading metaphors and analogies.
From her sweet lips.

You can rage against the storm.
But.
If you survive.
You get to rebuild.
In all its tedium.

My cough is more worrying.
I sweat too easily.
Maybe I'm developing.
A taste for.
Death.