This stability of mine.
Is depressing
The doldrums of routine.
They keep me unfilled.

And,
oh I long.
For adventure that ends in ruin.

And,
oh I long.
For Dionysian ecstasy.

But.
That all lead to squander and squalor.
To trauma and decay.
That all lead to death.
Minutes away from the reaper.

So.
I keep at the Apollonian ordering of chaos and revel in the boredom of banal.
And I'm less inspired.

But well dressed.
But well fed.
But always high.

Maybe just maybe at the end of the dredgery I'll feel fullfilled.
Like all of this mattered.

But I'm a husk of an interesting person.
And the tumult of chaos and drifting.

Giving up.

Still natters at my mind.
Like my unfinished books.
Like my drug induced amnesia.

It all gets forgotten in my mundane days.
My necessity.

She loved me then.
When I was a potential.
A small seed in the mind's eye.
A possibility.

Yet I let her down.
I turned the greener grass a deeper shade of brown and wilted on a tree.

I'm now regret.
Frustration.
And nagging melancholy.
Twitching in the nightmare.

I'm sorry.
I say this with.
Honesty.

I
Gave.
Up a.
Long.
Time ago.

I'm just waiting to die.
Unconscious.
In a drug.
Coma

I never learned.
How to get attached.
When all I do is run.
To somewhere else.
Otherwise.
These ghosts.
They still haunt me.

I have always.
Hated myself.

That's why I'm so surprised.
When other people like.
Me.

Every time I experience or create something beautiful.
It's lost on me.
Like all those long hours of conversations.
With the minds of a missed lover.
I just walk away.
I disappeared.
As though nothing happened.
Blaming myself.
For my lack of perfection.

No one writes me love songs.

And, if they did.
I'd simply just burn them.

Like so many thrown away possibilities.
I don't want.

Like so many people.
So many temporary obsessions.

There are no troubling.
Thoughts.
In the emptiness.
Of another couple tranquilizers.
Far more than I could have taken.
But, how else do I feel like.
Drowning.
While I'm awake.
Other than being consumed.
By chemical apathy.

A rage that
Cannot be sated,
I project,
Across infinity
To those I hate.

Destruction.
Desolation.

I offer you annihilation.

I don't believe you when you talk to me.
Cause you do different things.
And, I find it hard to fake interest.
So, I just left.

And, I think about you sometimes.
Remembering.
You've never told the truth.
Just whatever would make you feel better.
You're probably sad.

Go rely on someone else.
I don't have the time.

I seem to exist.
In the tension between.
Each here and now.
In this moment.
Always.
Anxious.
Waiting.
For something.
To happen.

We had our secret moments.
Didn't.
We.
Our own.
Thing.

And maybe this too.
Like our lives.
Are stolen.
And sold.
At a higher price.
Than.
Free.

I'm trying to freeze myself.
In thought.
And become immortally relaxed.
In an understanding.
Why.
Is there any of this.
And me.
Just.
Broken

Selfishness seems to be something succinct.
That I use to get through to you few.
As though I can show you what I know.
About peace.
Keeping pace.
With what I want when it's really just.
To keep me sane.

I thought that.
Maybe.
I'd connected again.
To something greater that's outside myself who's existence was so poignant that I stopped for one moment to appreciate an honest true feeling or original thought that advanced both our understanding of ourselves through our shared humanity.
But,
You just wanted to **** me.

All I have left of my former life.
Is empty notebooks.
A photograph or two.
And her memory.
Written all over it.

I desire.
Nothing.
More.
Than a catastrophic.
Chaos.
To die in.
Ecstasy.
Over stimulation.

From the inside
Of the coma.
I breathe rhythmically.
Out of step
With
The outside world.

Until I wake up.
And,
Mourn the loss of dreams.

Synchronized with the depression
Of aware.

I am the blackened
Ashen goat,
Of a black mass.

Triumph of will
And,
Hate.

Churned by a carnal charnel house,
Of blood
And meaty pieces,
Of flesh.

I am the aftermath,
Of an aborted anathema.

Anachronistic,
Iconoclastic,
Filth,
And,
I grovel-
In my disorder.

A barren desolate beast,
Of all nations.

I am the sin eater.

Death of Jacob,
I am Esau.

Undomesticated man,
The bearer of dark,
Light.

The feral fornication,
Of the fauna.

I am a plant that eats life.

Numbers 28:22
“And one goat for a sin offering, to make an atonement for you.”

I feel better alone.
Unnoticed.

It's always away.
From an uncomfortable.
I'm here.

I ain't your bro.
I'm an amiltryptamine.
Away from an.
Overdose.

I'm symetrically out of place.
Every where I go.
Covered in the filth of a thousand chain smoked.
Cigarettes.
And, the offal.
Smelling foul.
Mould.
****.
Betraying the lie of potential.
In my face.