I get sad sometimes.
When I think about all.
That's happened.

But.
I got.
Used to it.

I feel nothing these days.
As empty as these wind swept dismal grey prairie days.
I find myself in.

It's really just an absence.
Of life.
A catatonic cowboy stuck in yesterday.
Longing for release from the boredom.
Of right now.

Tomorrow seems like an incomprehensible impossibility in this liminal infinite time.
Trying frantically to ossify in right here.
This thought.
This pure.
Unadulterated.
Moment.
Out of time.

Now begins the bare essentials.
Of keeping myself alive.
It takes three days to die.
Of dehydration.

A month.

For food.

I'm frustrated.
And.
Scared of tomorrow.
Cause it never turns out.
Like.
I want it to.
It just keeps keepin on.
While my head slowly
constricts itself into a
mad obsession with stuck.

At least when I'm crazy.
The sadness won't set in.
Long enough.

For me to get high.
Just to make it.

Through the day.

Care.
If I die.

Someone said in a curt cliche.
That
It's a
Cold hard
World out there.
Friend.

You gotta keep your wits about you.
Take the medication,
Drown out the voices with sedatives and
Keep a formal fragile facade of average.
Conform into the agglomeration of normalised behaviour.

Repeat the Nicean creed
Of nit picking normality.

Unfortunately.
I think I only think in cliches.
The soul of the author is laid bare.
And becomes
Destroyed.

Oh friends.
I know.
Self similar sentiment
Is wasted on literary minds.
As my verbosity is limited by my lexicon
That's drying up as we speak.
The creek bed of my creativity
Evaporating.

And,
What am I but average
In ability.

Irregular in mental acuity.
My divine spark
Is this mashing together
Of words someone else
Stoked in a literary bonfire.

For I'm as cold as frozen nitrogen.
Disjointed from the ambient temperature of familiar
In my own personal agoge.
Raised on rusty nails
Tempering my will as
Hard as an isolated diamond.
Ranting to the coal.

And, I found myself
Looking for my rough.

It's where I discovered
Some familiar adage
To regurgitate in an off tempo
Poorly worded poem.

And it's always a sob story they're singing
On the radio.
About the trials of other people.
And their mundane conformity to their ideals of
Triumph and tribulation, scraped off their existential sinew.
Burning.
Curling up their metaphoric arm.

Familiarity in self diagnoed PTSD.

There's
Always a love song they're writing.
With fountain pens.
In caligraphy.
Vague and ambiguous.
A passion everyone feels the same.

But isn't it the desire for a break
From the mundane.
To be consumed in an eschatology.

An apocalyptic devouring
Of logical reasoning.

When they find me out.
As they always do.
As an asymptomatic.
Anomaly.

They'll say,
There's no better torch song than an epitath.
A ****** ballad.
With a sorrowful refrain.
For me, strange and unusual:

Farewell.

Here too often.

Never.

Gone.
Too.
Soon

She sells sea shells.
By the sea shore.
Cause.
I ain't taking her flights of fancy.
As some sacred script.

Change?
If you missed the forest for the trees.
Maybe you'd think that.
But, I'm consistently me.
I just stopped fantasizing about people.
Accepted them for how they were.

And, threw them away.
Like the refuse they are.

Everyone is a temporary light.
In a sea of engulfing darkness.
And I will shine brighter than the sun.
In the middle of night.

The.
Sun.
Has.
Burnt.
My.
Hangover.
Into.
My.
Soul

I'm.
Gasping.­
For.
Air.

With.

Leather.
Backed.
Lungs.

And.
Baby.

Maybe.
Yo­u.
Got.
Me.
All.
Wrong.

As.
I.
Lurch.
Forward.

Or.
Lay.
Down.
A­nd.

Fade.

Into.
The.
Bleeding.
Days.

Where.

Yesterday.
Became­.

Today.

In.
The.
Sunset.

With.
Nausea.

Today.
I feel.
Like.
I don't.
Wanna
See.

Tomorrow.

With.
Cognizant eyes.

My utopia.
Of.
Endless release.

The.
Hope.
For.
Annihilation.

Just one day.
Of.
Non.
Existence.

Forever.

It's all unfolding.
So catastrophically well.
That sometimes.
These warcrimes.
Seem justified.

But, that's just the rotting over.
Of my moral life.
Getting beyond good and evil.
Some Zen enlightenment.

And,
The acceptance.
Of life how it is.
What's possible.

And,
How you can.
Get it.

Gets muddied up in the graveyard.
Of ideology.
As my opportunistic spirit.
Keeps telling me.

Less is better.

If none can't be.
Achieved.

And if the beasts devour each other.
Who am I to stop them?
Tearing at the throat of a rival billionaire.
I revel in the blood.
The gurgling sound of all their immoral.
Decisions, spoken through broken voices.
To deaf ears.

I cheer on the cannibalism of the bear.
That threatens my life, my reason to be.
I glory in the suffering of the beast who had me by the neck.
I encourage the misery.
I flatter the thing which brings salvation.

And, I know deep in my traitors heart.
I will skin the beast that devours the bear.
Consume its children.
Eliminate its seed.
If even given a chance.

Submission comes with hidden knives.
Poisonous potions and other schemes.
I am no hero.
No honour to be found in me.
I've lived my life in desperation.
Fear and darkness.

But, if all the conditions are set.
I'll **** every beast in the valley.
Unfortunate enough to get too close.

I'm a snake in the grass.
You knew I was an adder *****.
Why did you let me in?
God won't stop me, so doesn't God consent?

You get what you deserve.
In the Kali Yuga.
And, me, I'm Amram.
******.

Mahakala will destroy in time.
Abaddon will be let loose and obliterate the wicked.
Samael will be crowned king of Satans and wreak havoc..

Until Azrael whispers the final word.
Death has come.

No one will fix you.
Only your banal self.
And, it's not profound.
Just.
Happens.

You can lick your own wounds.

I did.

If I could feel like you.
And trust the rest.
Then maybe.
I'd be normal.
But, that's never the case.
So, again.
I broke my hand.
And, the endorphines.
Made me feel better.
Than your concern.

I hate my face.
I hate my body.
I hate being conscious.
It just reminds me.
I'm alive.
And real.
And I've got so long to wait.
To die.

Lately life just seems.
Like a desperate plea.
For attention.
Daddy didn't love me.

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