I blame the drugs,
I blame the alcohol,
I blame the despair and the hopelessness that
Put you there.

I blame society.
I blame aggressive personalities.
Taking us down 10 pins at a time.
I blame the pin reset for taking too long
and being faulty at its job.

I blame the selfishness.
I blame the greed.
I blame the world for ******* artists
dry of their passion.

Paying far too much money for splatters of paint
on a canvas.
Paying far too much for songs without meaning
without talent.
That are recycled and reused.

For if I went to art school I'd pay far much more money
To go than I would make in my life.

I am bitter and resentful of what I hear every
single
*******
day.

I blame this chilling loneliness
which shatters my bones.
I blame myself for not picking myself up out of this mess
And moving on.

It's my voice in my head
That's keeping me from getting where I need to be.
That's keeping me from trying harder than my hardest.
That kept me in bed and not at school today.
It's where I need to be.

I realize that some things are my fault.
I realize that others are not.

I look out the window and I want to cry
Because this 'beautiful world' full of possibilities
never fails to just pass on by.

I am consumed by despair.
And I don't enjoy it.

I don't know what to do anymore.

I'm twenty years old.
To be twenty one in 4 months.
I feel like a 42 year old woman
Stuck at home
Being a mooch.

Since when was it OK to take the power of judgement
away from God and place it into the hands of mortal man?

I'm aware of life's issues - at least I seem to think so.
I'm aware you can't ever seem to erase
deadly mistakes.
Even so there's always room for more.

She was a demented sort of being.
One typically found in perfect composure.
Down to the fact that her hair ties always matched her polish,
her beautifully polished bloodthirsty talons.
At every opportunity she made incisions upon her victims.
Gouged their eyes out and tore at their flesh.
Left innumerable wounds upon each body she considered a canvas.
Even when she withdrew her grasp she nicked every vein.
And when she was finished, it was a masterpiece.
She lined her dolls up in an orderly fashion.
She managed to take every thing she could.
The one thing that always bothered her, however, was that she could never devoid each carcass entirely of its life.

Well I frequent passages of time
that have long ago passed but are still
prevalent in some part of my mind.

Perhaps if I put more time into gardening
And less into stone masonry
and less into sharpening blades
never to be used
and less into setting fire to the bridges I've crossed
I'd be content with where I stand in this life.

I'd be happier.

It’s a chess game.
I have quite the worthy opponent.
And we sit in silence for hours.
The worry has worked its way miles deep down into our foreheads.
One hand drawn to place the piece and then
Relinquish it’s hold.

We’re stuck in this odyssey.
Frame worked in black and white.
It’s perfectly geometric, placed down to an exact measurement in time and space. The absolute precision of placement is driving me mad in this endless silence.

And it seems to stretch on for miles.

She says I can't draw
He says I can't sing
They both say they can't.

The problem is simply that they won't.

Your brain is three dimensional,
and you're stick in a 2-D format of thinking.
You're stuck in that metaphorical box.

What I do, it doesn't have to be great.
What I do needs to make me happy.

That's why I do it.

I have this friend
who goes by misery.
I also have this friend
who goes by happiness.

They constantly argue over who deserves more of my attention and why.

Lately I’ve been too exhausted to listen to either of them.