I remember.
Walking for hours.
And ending.
Up.
With her.
Arm.
Around me.
Warm.
Peaceful.

Does it matter.
If you're screaming.
When all that can.
Get you to sleep.
Is the promise.
Tomorrow won't be so.
Bad.

But it.
Always.
Is.

It burns.
Going down.
But I'm used to it.
Like it's normal.
And, I pass out.
By choice.

It would be nice.
If at the end of forever.
All of this.
Meant something more.
Than just.
Witnessing the show.

This city.
Isn't something I remember.
Too harsh.
Too edgy.
Too many **** heads.
Constant violence and apprehension.
The modern urban world.
A paris on the prairies.

Maybe one day.
I'll get myself out of this.
And, maybe.
Just smile.
Hoping tomorrow.
Never comes.

Stuck in the warm embrace.
Of I can.

I am constantly escaping.
From right now.
To get lost.
In.
Never was.

The pine trees sag.
Cushioned in the oh so very warm comfort.
Of the freshly fallen snow.
And, I walk.
Along the banks of a half frozen river.
Idolizing my isolation.
Engulfed in a familiar cold.
That I can bear.
For such a view.

I can only see happiness.
In pictures.
Or videos of people.
Tranquil and content in nature.
While I force myself.
To rot.
In this small.
Room

What am I except.
Mean and sinew.
That breaks at inconvenient.
Times.

I remember how she'd laugh.
And the way she felt laying there.
When we just looked at each other.
It was warm.
It was comfortable.

She said the most endearing thing.

You make me feel safe.

Now.

I just feel bad.
About ******* it up.
With nothing,
Gained.

Everything,
Lost.

I never wanted to play.
Nice.
With the other kids.
I just.
Wanted to be alone.
Now.
I just wanna.
Recede on back into that nothingness.
I know so well.
My good friend.
Cushioned in silence.
Drifting by myself.

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.

Being in time.
Feels like.
The ego and its own.
Beyond good and evil.
Something.
Absurd.
Some.
Fear and Trembling.

We live in old stained run down.
Modernist apartments.
Stale.
Mouldy.
Dead.
And, we do nothing outside.
Of trying to forget.
How menial it is.

To be.
Alive.

To be.
Average.

To be.
Poor.

Permanent idle hands.
And medicating away.
The boredom.

I can't stop.
Screaming.
Inside.

And.
I want to peel.
Off my skin.

Existence.
Constant frustration.

Abyssal.
Abysmal thoughts.
Drawn taught.

In
My
Mind.

The dirt caked on my hands.
I remember.
Sleeping on rocks.
Eating from the garbage.

And.
No one.
Ever helped.
Or thought.
I.
Needed it.

It's all my fault.
As.
They like.
To say.

But it doesn't.
Matter.
Anymore.

Everything is futile.
Just.
Barren empty fields.

My.
Slow.
Death.