Sometimes I feel.
Like.
Self immolation.

An internal.
Explosion.

Destroying myself.

There's nothing in here.
Nothing worth saving.
There's nothing in anyone else.
Nothing worth knowing.

And, there's that dead stare.
I do.
When I'm in public.

Vacant.
Let down.

Now I recede.
Into my subconscious.
Floating in the narrative.
Of another insane dream.
Or the comatose.
Of deep sleep.

She sings me songs.
In that southern twang.
And, I can't remember where I'm from.
Cause I'm trying to focus on right now.
With her.
And that shrill trail.
Of her voice.

All those hours.
On all those roads.
And, all the epiphanies.
The hope.

Are now behind me.

As I enter the city limits.
Of.
Compulsive escapism and distance.

I don't need.
What you need.

I don't feel.
What you feel.

I don't think.
What you think.

And I'm rather reticent.
To give you a chance.
To try to.
Own me.

Some kinda.
Bauble.

I can make it through my life.
And the day.
Only if I'm properly.
Over medicated.
On these.
Chemical friends.
Of mine.

Tomorrow comes.
Even when you.
Fail.
Repeatedly.
And.
Eventually.
Everything is forgotten.

I don't remember ever having a future.
That went beyond how high can I get today.
With the poverty drawn in my ***** clothes.
On those lazy hazy sunny days I just wanted to stop.
I can't recall thinking past right now.

I wasn't supposed.
To live this long.
I was supposed to die in my own personal catastrophe.
My own holy explosion.
Found in the gutter.
Face down.

It was some subtle suicide.
That only my lucky friends managed.
To do.

There's never been anything out here.
Nothing but the barking of coyotes.
Grass green, moss painted rocks, and spear grass.
Crickets singing you to sleep.
In the abysmal doldrums.
In.
The heart of the prairie.

We just.
Die.
And in our death.
Fulfill our destiny
There's nothing out here.
Just dying slowly.
And.
Self immolation.

I like to walk around at night.
When no one else.
Is out.

All the things I've never done.
Have just passed me by.
Nothing lost.
Nothing gained.
Just too high hopes.
Too many disappointments.
As long as I breathe.
I succeed at life.

It was never love.
For you.
I guess it was just.
Lonely.
Whoever is.
Available.

I was never engaged.
With you.
Or felt something deep.
You just wrote me a story.
And I smiled.
I accepted it.
So I could be whatever.
You wanted me to be.

But,
I was and always will.
Be alone.
Talking to myself.
Instead of the idea of me.