--
Fill my days with sugar and smoke,
Demons in my peripheral
As I'm staring at blank screens
With my head full of thoughts
And "Maybe tomorrow"s.

I've got hair for days
And it tangles into everything I do,
Though scissors scare the life out of me.
Gets into my figure eight weeks
Cycling through the same routine.
Sleep, work, home, sleep, work, home, sleep.
Guess I never really adapted to change well.

Feigning knowledge of the written word
Even when my tongue twists
When I make casual conversation.
Feigning polite kindness
And spitting poison when they all
Have their back turned.
Feigning contentment
Even when the anxiety builds at
The sight of responsibility.

Spots on my hands,
Spots in my eyes,
Spots in my memory;
Not sure which bothers me more.

Maybe everything.
--