he was weak, and pathetic
and earnest, and kind
but he was that bleeding, aching, pain in my side
so i took both my hands and choked him to death,
forgetting the shell is as weak as the man

I think I am in love with apathy and sighs.
I don't feel well when I look into
my own eyes.

What comes next?
After all this scripted non-sense.
The art is gone...

I'll sit on the ******* fence.

And when they come for me,
demanding things I cannot see.
I'll feel the shame I lack,
and keep looking

for the track

  that I can't
                stay
                   on.

Her eyes danced with
cornfield loneliness;
pain so deep
that blueberries and
puppies couldn't
touch it.
She tried to **** it with
***** and
****,
but that only
made it worse.

The solution came
simply,
like flipping a switch.
She just quit loving.
It was rough at first;
tough on the heart.
It hurt when she
saw dandelions and
felt velvet on her face.
It ached when she
smelled the sunrise and
kissed soft lips.
But with time she became
like a head of lettuce
or a marble.
Her eyes were
vacant;
reptilian and blank.

The tick tock of the clock,
voices,
the sound of the dancing pen
resounds in my head.

what am I doing?
what am I to do?
on this lonely night
with this blue hue.

everyone is silent
the world is asleep
yet my moments are escaping
like sand held in hand.

Time has stopped
yet the clock still ticks
my patience is gone,
yet still, I have to carry on.

If her eyes were
a street,
they would be a
dead end.
There wouldn't be
a sign.
And if I drove
into them,
all the promising
landscape
and stunning scenery
would come to
an abrupt stop.
Such lies...
Those
dead-end eyes.

I want to feel disappointed
I want to feel like I have failed
But the feeling I feel most often
Is feeling impervious to things that should bother me most

I know what I should feel
unease, disheartened, and anxious
But all I feel is placid, empty, and slightly annoyed

So I sit on my bed at 2 am and wait for something to fill me
Fear, determination, or irritation
so I can fill out the papers next to me
even with the knowledge of its utter importance
I still couldn't give a ****

I once knew a woman that
could roll herself into a perfect ball.
She rolled all over town.
It didn't seem that unusual; sad,
but not strange.
Lots of people are all balled up.
I caught glimpses of her face.
It was often expressionless.
She had a flat affect.
Sometimes, she'd come out of her ball,
and smile.
She was gorgeous, educated, and
had a great sense of humor.
But when I'd get too close,
she'd get back into her ball
and roll away.