I'm impatient.
And restless.
Something good should have happened.
I can't predict tomorrow,
So I hate today.
Yesterday hurt.
Along with the day before that.
I'm not haunted, or dramatically morose.
But I'm waiting.
Every day.
And every day feels the same.
The faces and scenarios are different.
Maybe these memories will
Seem important or joyful
In 7 years.
Right now I don't feel them though.
Changes don't rock me.
I'm not afraid of happiness or pain,
Just the same.

The same routine
I sit and scheme
My words will set me free.
I have my mind
I have my pen so nothing can silence me.
Words are drawn on the page created one by one.
They tell the story of a broken man.
On a search for something different, something new.
Day in and day out the same routine at hand.
It's time for him to grow up
It's time to be a man.
Change is part of life and that's just how it goes.
But when life doesn't change at all that's when he begins to question it all.

I am in a rut
an awful rut that I don’t know how to get out of
I find myself reaching for different things to bring me comfort
I’m not even for sure what I need
what I’m searching for
It’s like I have gone numb
It’s like I’m stuck in this current emotion and can’t get out
I’m bored yet content but sad yet feeling okay
I have felt on the verge of tears for the past few days and I don’t know why
I don’t know what my body is waiting for
It’s like I’m waiting for something to break me

When shall I get out of this rut?
Counting down the hours until I can go
Only five and a half now, but
I'll be back next weekend, I know.

And only thirty dollar bills a day, for what?
To get hit and kicked and yelled at
I'd rather get payed for selling my body like a ****
Or maybe I'll be a professional eater and become professionally fat.

Pure disgust is all I have to say
Until next time, dreadful day.

how long must i
drag my bones
across these
lukewarm
monotonous
coals,
i wondered
as i loaded
the dryer
with white
clothes

7 cups of coffee, never been so tired.
7 hours 'til the weekend
          I'm a garbage human.
Crawling on my belly through the ******* bars.
Kick a couple empty cups and join the trashcan stars.

Monday morning, can't believe still at a job like this,
I'm a ******* nematode behind a ******* desk.
Got a mouth full of fangs and a vinegar gut
Got my hands *******
          got an empty wallet.

Empty out my guts on the concrete night,
pour the contents of my chest on the headache morning.
Chisel clear sight out of my crusted eyes
just in time to read a bright orange low fuel warning.

**** these stupid weekends and this ******* space.
**** my empty-heart excuses and my dishpit face.
Clean the plate and wipe the slate clean.
          Leave this place.
Maybe try and settle down.
One more cup of coffee.

The nuts
and the bolts
of your automatic habits
programmed scowls and slowing reflexes
               keep you
     matching wits with no one
               every night.
             And you keep
slipping
     back into your 6-month rut
     with your cold sneer,
      hands in pockets,
      your shrinking bank account
           and swelling gut...

The Mountain Lines meander,
you're just killing time and brain cells.
Ashy days are tasting bland.
Bus routes circle back on themselves
          like your footsteps every ******* night,
          this town will raise its hand,
          you'll retreat into familiar flight.

                                                      Cr­inge
                                       'cuz it's so easy.
                                                       Cringe
                     at what you have become.
     Come back on your loop repeating.
                                 Potential's mocked.
       You're numb and deaf and dumb.

And you've never surrendered.
But that's not the same as winning.
Pinning hopes on snapping out
of it and sleeping hearts on sleeves.
          Heavy footsteps every ******* night,
          a walking metronome
          passing cross-streets just to pass the time.

Your dull,
aching eyes
that you peer through every sunset--
programmed scowls squinting through preset acts--
               keep your
       dulling wits all silent
              every night.
           And you'll keep
walking through days like turnstile gates
and send each night on down the line.

Send each night on down the line.

I can never write poetry when I'm happy
what does that say about my personality?
why do words evade me when I long to share
my feelings of positivity?
I don't want to only be known for my works
on tragedy
I am not always sad and lonely
I smile and laugh
and enjoy what life gives me
and yet I can never convert that joy into poetry
here I am, destined it seems, to always be a tragedy