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 would rather be.
Some beautiful something.
That dies.
Fragile.
In some by and by.
Never known.
By anyone.
The hyperbolic tragedy.
That will be.
The rest.
Of my life.

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.

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.

Sometimes I feel.
Like.
Self immolation.

An internal.
Explosion.

Destroying myself.

I haven't sighed through enough suicide notes.
Or lost the will to speak.
An alogia of a life.
Never murmured.
Low enough.

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