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

Was it love that brought me here.
With you.
Or was it just the idea I had.
That this.
Would be different.

I can't remember the sound of her voice.
Her touch.
Or anything we said to each other in confidence.
I don't remember her laugh.
Or the way she smelled.

But her face is etched.
Into my very being.

So much so that I wish.
I could just.
Forget.

Love me.
Or something.
I don't really care.
And I never really did.
I just faked it cause.
I was told to.
I felt responsible.
For existing.

And, now.
I'd rather run away.
Motion keeps me moving.

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.

I don't feel anything anymore.
Except.
Depression.
Except melancholic self reflection.

I used to care about something.
Now I just can't find the words.

And, I'm living in torpor.
Sleeping while awake.
A somnolent consciousness.

Existing.
Not living.

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.

What's the point in this.
Self expression of miserable thoughts.
Tomorrow.
Is gone and now I recede into a never was.
Chasing delusions.
Running from life.
And maybe tomorrow.
It will get better.
And maybe tomorrow.
I'll be dead.

As though these sad songs mean anything other.
Than I'm back to being normal.
Depressed.
Listless.
And an utter.
Disappointment.

Up there in that distraction.
That unmedicated delirium.
I feel normal and curse the injustice.
When really.
All I am is bored.
And oh so severely.
Damaged.

With no self expression left.
But a blank stare and impulsive displays.
Of go away.
I don't want to human anymore.

It seems.
Nothing was.
Really.
Worth it.
All along.

I'm still alone.
Still escaping from reality.
Still ******.
Still sad.

Nothing really got better.

Just isolated.

Just jaded.

Just fatalistic.

All those hopes.
All those dreams.
Every could have been.
Nothing.
But.
Fantasy

I sit and wait for some sort of miracle.
But nothing ever comes.

And, I've gotten used to being alone.
Passing the time between here and.
Eternity.
Motionless.
Agape at an absurd universe that taunts me.
With lies of success.

Tomorrow.
Tomorrow is always fixed in my mind as some antediluvian.
Memory I don't have.
Tomorrow.
Where I'll fix what's wrong with me.
Do the things I talk about.

But, not today.
Never today.
Today is for the nostalgia of coulda done better.

I've stopped fantasizing.
About other people
How can I see a future.
With other people.
When.
I.
Don't.
Have.
One.
Myself.

Just regret.
Just apprehension.
Just death.

This frozen moment.
In a dilapidated something.
Through the foggy haze.
Of whatever I'm currently on.

I can see.

My life.

What a waste.

It's become.

My mind is filled with a frenzied frustration when I take the time to.
Think.
About.
Anything.
More.
Than wasting my time with overt over stimulation, just occupying time with this.
Distraction.
This.
Meandering.
Nothing.
That does nothing but fill me up with dread that I've wasted everything trying to get high.
Just.
Silencing.
That.
Voice.
Inside my head that repeats a neurotic mantra of give up, give in, give a ****.
Anything.
To.
****.
Silence

How many times can I express.
The same thing.
The same way.
With the same words.

And, not quit.
Smashing my head against the wall.
To get rid of a frustration.
I don't know the cause of.

I'm out of things again
Itchy.
Meaningless and odd.
Though, that never changes.

It just transmutates.
Until I've got nothing left.
But, dead vacant words.
A simple catatonia.
Negative schizoid.
Traits.