There is this pair of sweatpants,
they sit in the bottom left drawer of my dresser.
Sometimes
I like to picture myself wearing them.

That comfortable,
snuggly feeling.
Like a warm hug
from an old friend
you used to crush on.

It's such an out there concept,
- but imagine if it happened.
Me
wearing those sweatpants
from the bottom left drawer of my dresser.
Or that black hoodie
that my mom got me two Christmases ago
the one that she special purchased because so it'd fit just right
Or any stained shirt ever
one that you can wear for comfort at home
because finally no one is watching.

I learned young
to button-up
so that there wouldn't be
as many eyes watching me today
so i can go and buy my favourite candy
from that gas station down the street.

And I always wondered
why some people's sunday best
was my only way to feel normal.

I was about 10
when I learned
that wearing comfortable
might get me stopped
by the police today.

I guess this is what it's like
to be true
north
strong
and free.

This.
Stimuli.
It depletes me.
Turn, turn around.
And complete me.

I, lost all control.
And this sense of lament is visceral.
I bleed, from the outside.
Numb death, turning, becoming inside.

I.
Just need one thing.
A child’s toy, nostalgic and stuffed.
A somnambulant hymn.
To remove me.
Disassociate, please.

Your hand is soft.
Placed places that comfort.
I miss your scent, that congeals.
I wish I didn’t have to feel nothing.
Emptiness is so guttural and potent.

I can’t help but see.
Everything slip by.

The time numbs. I want it raw like it was.
Like ******* and ******.
Something powerful and honest.

I let lies continue.
Fantasies I tease myself with.
I never follow these potential trails.
I’m terrified of not having blissful reverie.
Closure haunts me. I’m scared of definition.

I live in a time that never ends.
I breath the exhaust we know but cannot see.
The world spins upon my shoulders, I pass it on without using my hands.
People die, it’s distant.
Life doesn’t mean much.

I live here in a puddle.
I love all the potential I have to waste.
I don’t know what I would slobber on without it.

I want something raw.
Something abrasive, without some sort of superficial veil.
If I brush back another thin facade just to uncover a clearer image of *******.
I’ll slump the world with my bear hands, and whatever blunt object is abreast.
The ensuing postlude or coattail if you will, is gruesome and redefines the word genocide.

Life passes by because it’s not cut with iron anymore. It’s chiseled away with fantastic stone and underlying hopeful chimes of music. A method to which leaves reality unclear, and insipid. Quite literally dull and un-vitriolic.

The time jingoes tore babies from teats, bounced sore bosoms, and buried John Doe’s in mass graves beside schools. Is long gone.

I live in a butterfly massacre.

I am a possessive creature
I am held together by passion
Fear me when I am mad
Love me when I am motivated
I am a jealous creature
I will love you to the moon and back
Break me and I will be vengeful
Kiss me but touch no other
Not one stroke
Not one glance
I want my name tattooed on your heart
Because yours is burned in my brain
I am a possessive creature but so are you

-J.R

The time is so different when you are in love
They might be silent and you never told them what happened
You had met strangers before and got a relationship with them
They are in love with you, and yeah, you are also in love with them
You were going on a date
Kissing them
Hugging them
Spending your time as long as you could do to yourself
Loving them as far as you could give to them a love itself
You had so many beautiful days all the time when you were in love
You were happy, and you deserved to be happy
One week you did
One month you did
One year you did
And after, and after
But in one moment both of you felt bad and it was going to be mad
You broke your heart by trying to forget what you loved before
You tried, then you would say to yourself
“I hate growing up”
“I just want to be a kid all the time”
“I won’t be falling in love again, it hurts”
That’s statement might be unspoken
But yeah, maybe everyone thinks about it at once

When we see what some people are dishing out,
we know what Bertrand Russell was talking about:
"The stupid are cocksure, the intelligent full of doubt."

When you meet someone who thinks he's clever,
but seems much too confident in his endeavour,
and talks to you non stop and forever and ever.

When he acts like a prophet defying convention,
never admitting a lack of comprehension,
promptly has a cure for everything you mention.

When he hands out his advice on a silver platter
convincing you that his opinions matter,
you can be certain, he's as mad as a hatter.

Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Sane anymore.

I am full of feelings
Everywhere
All the time
Sometimes they are so powerful
They consume me alive
Materialize Madness
Incite my moral decline