Have you heard this before?
I'm so complicated.
I'm so complex.
I'm so hard to understand.
I'm just a vague nothingness.
That I write with words.
Expressing nothing.
But, my lack of originality.
My reliance on the emotion.
Of poor punctuation.

My life has been wasted.
On wasting time.
Waiting for a wonder.
To weave into my life.

A
Better.

Story to sell.
A soliloquy or something.
More succinct.
Some kinda so called solution.

To.
My.

Feeble mind frantically.
Finding faults.
With my forlorn failure.
My fragile forgetfulness.

It's
Just.

My memory keeps me moving.
Measuring the minutes.
Making me melancholy.
And meaning left.

Nowhere to be
Found

I want to scream.
At the top of my lungs.
Til the veins burst in my neck.
Blood streams from my throat.
Vocal chords shredded to itty bitty bits.
That I can't choke down.

I want to bellow into the aether.
Of what I imagine to be a caring.
Invisible.
Entity.

Let me off.
Get me out.

Just another ran down day,
More sitting around
Calling it work.
Being productive and doing
Nothing

My grandma was a basket baby.
Living through the revivals.
Held in tents.
Never dreaming of anyone else.
Outside of the farm.
Or the family.
Or the dancehall.
One small novel.
In the backwoods.

I can't think.
Anymore.

Just like how I stopped.
Wincing when I was in pain.

It's a communication.
And understanding.

Of something negative.

I want to die.

I yearn for irrelevant.
Laughter.
Something fun.

Instead.

I just blissfully drift.
Into my idea.
My abstraction.

Independent of reality.

In these in-between neurotic phases I wonder what went wrong with me.
When did I stop living.
Tomorrow too far away.
Today too mundane.
And I have a long list.
Of could have beens.

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.

Beauty sloughs off.
Like water bloated skin.
That monstrosity we've become.
That corpse.
Bloated with hubris.
Giving off gas.

Me.
I'm as still.
As that marble.
They sheathed you in.
To steal.
Your soul.

And these eyes.
They penetrate.
With my cold.
Dead.
Stare.

Some nonsense.
As an obituary.
Some kinda association.

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

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.

Every day I wake up to the scratching.
Of parasites.
Swollen with blood and ravenous
The dull abrasive buzz of electrical devices.
Preventing me from sleeping.
Generating my insomnia.
Ash coats the front of my shirt.
My teeth are brown and broken.
My appetite is cripplingly nauseating.
I'm ill from malnutrition.
And I eat cigarette smoke and coffee.
While my lungs scream at me for breath.

I don't know what caring means anymore.
Desire to live.
Motivation.
These are as alien to me as three meals a day.
Or socializing.
Or work.
Or reasons to exist outside of the fear of annihilation.
I've seem to have gone beyond depression.
Into resignation.

I stare vacantly at my reflection.
What emotion am I supposed to fake to myself?
How do I make myself smile.
I know I'm lying.
It's no longer an urge for someone to understand..
Or hold me.
Or make it better.
It's an urge to get up the motivation to get out of bed.
Pointlessly greet the day.
Eat.
I'm running on the basics and I'm low on fuel.

I'm just here, brushing filth off of myself and wondering.
When was it that I didn't care.
About changing my torpor.
Into triumph.
When did this become acceptable?
Living in grime.
Starving.
Running from people and responsibility.
What did I do.
To become this desolate.
This, abominable.

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

I have abandoned my life.
For an escape.
From my bad decisions.
My lack of privacy.
And.
My own mind.

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.

I don't want love.
It's not functional.
And, it always ends up with.
Acting like I want to stay.

When I'm just there.

For the food.
And the house.
And the shared ****.

Self medicating.
Into that apocalypse.
Of how late is it?
Am I dead?

Sometimes it seems.
Like being arrested.
Is my life.

I love the fear and panic.
Of the next few moments.

Might decide your life.

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 **** the confusion.
And paranoia.
With too many substances.
But, I can't turn it.
Off.

That's not.
Possible.

I can't scream through these.
Collapsing lungs.
And dying ambitions.

I can't muffle the constant barrage.
Of die.
Die, and in this glorious emptiness.
Forget.

Everything.
Existence extinguished in a low gurgle.

My last breath.

Release.

Waking up has become.
The hardest thing I have to do.
I just feel.
Dead.

Alone is fine.
But, I can't describe the way.
I've been lately.
Other than.

Given up.
And.
A waste of food.

So, I don't eat.
Or try.

My addendum to you.

I don't care.
It's overall meaningless and futile.

So.
Whatever.
Just leave me alone.

I'm stuck there in some anonymous dilapidated chicken coup.
Rotten boards and peeling paint.
Vermin taking up residence in some dusty stuffy run down shack.
As the fields of wheat blow in my imagination.
Cause out here there's just tall grass.
And mummified corpses of varmits.
Skulls you're proud to find.
And some city boys getting tired of the spear grass.

And here I am in some nostalgic memory.
Driving tractors with my grandpa.
Playing in combines.
The smell of gasoline.
The wind knocking something against the wall.

I hope this dying memory collapses on me.
So I can forget it was so.
Long ago.

I disappear and hide in cracks.
With the knowledge.
That I always become a memory.
That lasts for a few months.
Somewhere else is so anonymous.
When you don't tell them where it is.
And, I just disappear.
Then you don't know me anymore.
And, you're replaced.
With another random human being.
I find no joy in.
To get bored of.

I was just made.
Broken.

My voice so soft.
You'll miss it.

Before it stops talking at all.

Gets lost in intoxicated.

They scream at me.
For not being.
What they want.

Filled with apathy.
Self destructing.

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

I just wanted to move back to that.
Emptiness in my childhood.

That vacant stare.

The wind whistling in my ear.
And old addages.
To help me fall
Asleep.

Love tries to ossify people.
Into that rush of chemicals.
And keeping them just like that time.
You looked a little bit too long.
And, it was more than relaxed on your face.
Cause you couldn't control what you were doing.
Or the words coming out.
Of your mouth.

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.