starting is the hardest part
although ending is never easy,
i remain firm in my belief that starts are harder than finishes
how do i break my mind and move my hands?
teach me how to dance, teach me how to talk,
teach me how to walk again
move my legs for me and bend my fingers around the bottles
imprint them with your own personal brand,
and walk fast
push me ahead and tighten your fingers around my shoulders
i i  i i i i i i i i i i
i’m always talking about myself,
so tell me about yourself, if you will
i don’t want to know
but one never wants to know when they propose that question
they want to fill the long silence with something besides toe-tapping and nervous sips of cheap wine in a pretty bottle

and can you blame them?
long silences are like cinder blocks on the chest
the sooner you can crack them and mold them into something that passes as beautiful the better

and what other subject do we know better than ourselves?
let your words carve their way into the blocks
and find their caricature
they won’t reach my ears, or god forbid, my head
but that’s alright talk anyways
and i’ll blabber words i don’t understand and feel un-uniqe things

i’m not special, i’m just one in billions
infinity goes on and i blend right in

i can’t allow myself to make typos anymore, or say wrong things
because now i’m normal
normal normal normal no more repetition for me thanks

and i don’t want to be anymore i want to be ill and disgusting and pathetic

i’m a selfish ******* and i hate every bit of it

my brain is a garden in the fall
cold and dry and lifeless
bright prospects, once blossoming are long wilted over now,
throughly stomped by thick-soled boots

and discolor sets in.

filled with the fallen, it has been throughly raked apart, spread across the front lawn and scratched into lumps. they’re run over and jumped on and i just feel twinges in them now

the novelty fades
along with the glamour
sprinkling down like a cheap glitter shower
a spring shower;
soft
creeping along your hairline with the smell of light lilacs in a secret garden
dribbling wonderfully through a greasy scalp
one of the most ****** showers that’ll take place for a while
leaving loose indentations and wet feet and a swirling drain clogged with six years of hair
i should have thrown myself a line
now there’s just stale-smelling rooms and a lost little creature
rich in words
shallow in talent
its mouth is a river and help help it’s drowning

my head’s turned to mush and my heart’s turned to stone
i'm a rock caught between the spokes of your bike
twirling and whirling my hair brushes the ground with the bumpity-bump-bump of each rise and fall
it's hot down here, so close to the pavement
worms are frying, they better watch out,
or the rubber sole of a midnight wanderer will eat them right up

also your feet stink I would wash your shoes if I were you 

i wish i wish i wish i wish
i wish i could make words fly from my tongue and spin worlds and not cower from the unseen
i wish i could melt through carpet and slip through cracks in the concrete
i don't want to be anymore
being is hard
i would be satisfied with a nonexistence
no more bridges to burn or heads to crack
no more bleeding eyes and empty shampoo bottles that cost too much and run out too early
no music that will get old
no glasses that will drain themselves
no more trying to fix something that isn’t there
no more pathetic musings
no more tear-stained pillowcases and forced laughter through one-way glass
goodbye persona 182
you were beautiful while you lasted

i'm not interested

in living anymore

i don't want to die
living just doesn’t hold much interest for me

i don't feel good

i don't feel happy
only tired

tired tired
 always tired
i live in a perpetual nothingness

i can never find words
they lodge in the back of my throat and spiral out flat

may as well cut my vocal chords out
and replace them with yarn
maybe i’ll be able to string sentences together then

i’m buried in layers of ink and skin
they allow me to close my eyes and fall away
into my own personal oblivion

where it's dark and jazzy elevator music plays in the background
and there’s no sharp pings under numb detachment

there's a different breed of darkness to my oblivion
it's soft and shadowy
rippling over all my anxieties like a velvet tide
light shines in dusty shafts from no set direction
it doesn't illuminate anything
it’s nicer that way

i forgot what happiness feels like
not this halfway happiness that’s induced by comfort food and fuzzy blankets
but real happiness
that comes from deep inside of your being and spirals and glows

this is just a long complaint

hem hem

observation
about me

my life

is it really mine?

i feel so detached from it

i spend more time in dreams than i do in it
sweeping castles of words and swing sets that swing themselves


can i just leave?
fade away
into my oblivion
the one with the jazz music and the infinite velvet walls
i've come pretty close
may as well go all the way

i'm an inadequate mess of negativity
i can't function quite right anymore
unfunny angry pathetic boring
i'm me
and i don't hate me
hate is a strong word
i'm just tired
a slowly graying towel
long used and recently wrung-out
hung up to dry
dripping mediocracy onto a standard tile floor

ha

i'll show myself out

it’s nights like this
when my fingers are sticky and reek of popcorn
and my stomach purrs like an antique car
that i cease to exist
just a quiet little thief
tucked away in a prison of white stucco
stealing oxygen and racking up an electricity bill with a lopsided pink lamp
honey on my face
a “beauty treatment”
an edible headband sunken into my hair
gnats crawling between my eyelashes
black dots just as hungry as i am
the music of the wind plays outside my window
rattling long forgotten memories
and stirring up dust of the past
there’s a constellation in my hand
universes up my arm
purple lines swirling together into incoherent shapes
semi-deep whispers escaping my lips
that are pale and dry and hurt to touch
bad pop music crawls through crackly headphones
same song, different artist
and my sheets
animal print, picked from years past and never changed
due to either nostalgia or laziness, the world may never know
disengage themselves from my bed
twine around my ankles
sly cats looking for milk
and hunger eats at my heart
i count the minutes as they spin on
by the soft timpani as it thumps eighth notes through my chest

let me lay here
and whisper soft words to myself
as old spirits travel across my room
dancing on the ceiling
flickering across my vision
they shout things i can’t hear
invisible to my eyes
invisible to my ears
let me fight back tears
and give up
let me wish
for things i’ll never have
let me hate everything
let me hate myself
let me harden
be indifferent
no more pain
the spirits prance across the ceiling
a show only for me

there's a certain music to crying
a steady tempo in the organs as they shake
the bass drops with the shaky hands
your heart as i run you like a treadmill
boom boom
that's the chorus

the background music as it plays and plays
you can’t turn it off

it's too loud
not loud enough

the steady drip drop drip drop of tears as they fall over everything
your hands as they shake
i can feel them through the cheap plastic of the phone
it’s the best kind of conductor

everything is shaking
the speakers are turned up too loud

Hotel California
is my recording studio
where i go to **** my friends
burn all my bridges
the flames make my eyes sting
and my nose run
this pillow is too hard
but nothing is really soft, is it?
everything is rough and tough and western
old cowboy movies in sepia
the kind that my daddy watched
the kind he filled his mind and body with
life is dust and steel and gunshots
senselessness
under all the glamour
there's nothing
just sharp edges and loud music 

so much snot
how am i still secreting it
i thought it would have run out by now
after years and years and tears and tears I should be dry by now

i'm just a record machine
spitting hits back up as I wobble on unsteady pegs

i scream out the Eagles like nobodies business
i bleed lyrics and drip smooth jazz

i’m a music machine 
this little number is one of my own
i call it "what have i done"

will you hold my sheet music close to you?
sleep with it under your pillow? 
keep it balled in the bottom of your pocket?
or will it be pawned off to the highest bidder?
i weave my anthem and you absorb every word
mine
yours 
ours now
our music
don't let it float away dear