I guess if I had something more to say to you
I wouldn’t say I am sorry
I wouldn’t say I feel bad for you more than I feel for my own brother
And so because I am this mess
Not to say it is because of you
How could it be
A young love, a crazy man, an ego which made him proclaim he was God
And so I say, hey maybe I am not all there anymore
And I don’t have the best idea of what I am trying to get out of the process of emitting and procuring, are two different paces
I hope I wrote that right,
Or at least cipher-able
This is why I hate typing
The computer never seems to know grammatically
That I am legible
Hardly I know if people even care what comes out of I am so tired
The open book era has become a whole wham in the face
Other than that I am undeniably me
Man I miss the banter I could have with people who could stimulate a conversation
It is fun to feel intelligent
It isn’t fun to live, I’ve realized
Not after all of that
Not after all of that
And mind I type it again
Definitely not after all of that
Right now it feels like that’s the only thing that makes me feel anymore
God I’m choking up
The meds have made me so shut off
I would say its the meds but
You can put it anyway for a person, a doctor, a parent, a stranger
None would be able to look at you and say they can fix it
I wonder if they all feel it too or is it just me
It sure seems like everyone else would like to so quickly point the finger
A far fetched idea but what if
When we’re going through it, other people find the flaw,
Not realizing that in a moment or so, they will also be the same thing
The same problem
The same deadbeat painless looking suffering
I hate when I get emotional when I write
And I’m lying, but I guess you’re the only thing I have
Talking to people
And it feels like nothing gets me until I release it through words written,
Or left.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 6:28 AM UTC
I guess if I had something more to say to you
I wouldn’t say I am sorry
I wouldn’t say I feel bad for you more than I feel for my own brother
And so because I am this mess
Not to say it is because of you
How could it be
A young love, a crazy man, an ego which made him proclaim he was God
And so I say, hey maybe I am not all there anymore
And I don’t have the best idea of what I am trying to get out of the process of emitting and procuring, are two different paces
I hope I wrote that right,
Or at least cipher-able
This is why I hate typing
The computer never seems to know grammatically
That I am legible
Hardly I know if people even care what comes out of I am so tired
The open book era has become a whole wham in the face
Other than that I am undeniably me
Man I miss the banter I could have with people who could stimulate a conversation
It is fun to feel intelligent
It isn’t fun to live, I’ve realized
Not after all of that
Not after all of that
And mind I type it again
Definitely not after all of that
Right now it feels like that’s the only thing that makes me feel anymore
God I’m choking up
The meds have made me so shut off
I would say its the meds but
You can put it anyway for a person, a doctor, a parent, a stranger
None would be able to look at you and say they can fix it
I wonder if they all feel it too or is it just me
It sure seems like everyone else would like to so quickly point the finger
A far fetched idea but what if
When we’re going through it, other people find the flaw,
Not realizing that in a moment or so, they will also be the same thing
The same problem
The same deadbeat painless looking suffering
I hate when I get emotional when I write
And I’m lying, but I guess you’re the only thing I have
Talking to people
And it feels like nothing gets me until I release it through words written,
Or left.
