Choose ****. Choose a dealer. Choose your rolling papers. Choose a ****. Choose mind numbingly long conversations about **** all. Choose home grown. Choose frequent holidays to amsterdam. Choose red eyes. Choose the biggets pizza ever for when the munchies kick in. Choose paranoia. Choose chilling with mates. Choose hallucinating about a giant green hedgehog following you home. Choose watching Cheech and Chong. Choose skunk. Choose super skunk. Choose hiding your stash from the police. Choose spilling ***** **** water on your carpet. Choose a fake jamaican accent. Choose space cakes. Choose your future. Choose ****.

tonight when I fled from my cage,
I was secluded from my own head because
all it called upon was you. echoing and echoing.

like a mother aches for her lost child
I was
gnawing the skin on my fingertips
rustling the ends of my hair into knots
biting numbingly into my tongue
all so nonchalantly
like a fool.

who is so simply chasing his own tail
in circles and circles and circles and just such endless cycles

until they send themselves to sleep

Hi, I'm Jackie. I am 18 years old and I'm a senior at Brennan Burton High School in Frederickson, New York. Frederickson is the suburban wasteland that you've doubtlessly seen and read about in countless movies, TV shows and books concerned with life in these mind-numbingly dull pockets of land. If you can even call it "life", that is. However, I find that the aforementioned depictions of the people and happenings in towns like mine are, more often than not, completely wrong. It makes me wonder if the people writing these shows and films have ever taken the initiative to actually venture out of their modest little apartments in SoHo to see for themselves what an actual suburbia feels like. But, I digress... Sort of. The purpose of my story is to try to prove to you that what you think about suburbia is probably all wrong, or mostly wrong.
     Now, where to begin?
     OK. I live in a two-story house that was built in the wake of World War II. It was one of those houses that government built for the soldiers who were returning from the war to live happy and prosperous lives in with their smiling families. That was a long time ago though, and now it seems like most of the houses in my town are occupied by single mothers, single fathers or familial units that include a step-mother or step-father. And my family is no different, being made up of my father, Henry (everyone calls him Hank) and my little brother Huxley. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer only a few months after Huxley was born. They did everyting they could for her, but the cancer was advanced and she passed away only a few months after her initial diganosis. I loved my mother. She was a strong woman, she went to college, got a well paying job and gave birth to two kids. Sounds like a busy life, especially when you take into account that she was only 38 when she died.
     Thinking about her too much kind of shifts me into slow-mo, so I'm moving on. I love my dad, too. He's had a hard life. He grew up in a hard part of the city and had to drop out of school to start working at around 14 or 15. Not too long after he started working to help his family out, his father disappeared. Supposedly, my grandfather was involved with some sketchy people and, without a doubt, probably was involved in some sketchy dealings. Anyway, after he disappeared, my father was forced to work 18 hour days, 7 days a week. My grandmother was an alcoholic and a pill popper before my grandfather disappeared, and afterward it only got worse. One day when my father got home from work, he found his mother drowning in her own ***** on the kitchen floor. He rushed her to hospital, but it was too late. And to top it all off, when he got home, floating in the inch deep puke, he found her suicide note. That's when my father decided to pack his bags and move out of the city. Soon, he found work in an autobody shop and started saving money. Not long after that, his boss introduced him to his daughter who was around the same age. His boss's daughter turned out to be my mom.
     Sorry if all this background is annoying, but I figure if you want to read my story, you might as well know my parents' stories too. After all, if there were no them, then there would be no me. But yeah, my father. He's a good guy. Always quick to make light of any situation. You'll never catch him bringing the emotional air of a situation down. That;s just not how he operates, and now that I think about it, I can see why. If he had made a habit of that, he no doubt would've ended up like his mother. I'm very appreciative of him and everything that he does, I just wish I got around to tell him that more often.
     Then there's my brother Huxley. He's 9 years old, in the 4th grade and was named after Aldous Huxley, the author of Brave New World, my mother's favorite book. The name is eerily fitting too, almost as if his being named after a famous author was a foreshadowing of sorts. While his best friends are playing the latest PlayStation game, Huxley is devouring a novel. Basically, if you put it in front of him, he'll ****** it up and be quoting it the next time you see him. He's a smart kid, a really smart kid and I couldn't be prouder as an older sister, especially these days, when the only ting kids read are text messages and Facebook statuses. Whenever I go to the library to finish schoolwork, I always try to pick something up for him. The last one I got him was Carrie by Stephen King, one of my favorite authors. After he finished it though, he told me he'd much rather me bring him home another Nicholas Sparks book. I can't say you would ever hear those words coming out of my mouth, but I admire the kid's openness. I picked him up The Choice a few days ago, and when I checked in on him that night his smile was never brighter. He quickly kissed my cheek and told me he only had a few chapters left so I had to leave him be. All in all, he's quiet, shy and sensitive and I love him for that.

Stochastic perfection
Staccato smoothness
Screaming comfort
Mental duress
Gutter rat beauty
Sensory control
Primal sophistication
Mutating soul
Indecipherable pitch
Blinding vision
Deafening clarity
Reckless precision
Simplistic genius
Street-wise intellect
Monosyllabic truth
Politically incorrect
Emotional apocalypse
Raging articulation
Distorted calm
Dominating freedom
Numbingly sensitive
Inappropriate dignity
Contemplative explosion
Tempestuous tranquility

Leave the light on for me.
I know it's late,
And I'm out wandering the streets
But when I promised I'd come home tonight
Whether I was belligerently drunk
Or mind-numbingly high,
I meant it.
And now I'm wandering the streets
And the streetlights are all blending together
As though they are strung out
On the christmas trees
Of the apartment buildings
On our street,
Except I'm not sure if it's our street
Because I have stood on every step
Of every porch with the light on
But no one seems to be home
And I can't help but wonder,
Did you forget to leave the light on?
Or do you not feel like coming to the door?
I'm trying not to over-think this
But the police officer across the street
Is beginning to stare at me
With beady eyes
That remind me of the rats
That I passed in the subway
Just twenty minutes ago,
Or was it thirty?
I can't read the numbers
Engraved on the buildings
Aligned like tombstones
As though even they know
Our love is going to die here.
Or is it already dead?
I guess I'll know
In the next thirty seconds
Because I have one more porch to go
And I can't help but wonder,
Did you leave the light on?

The moths think they are butterflies. They have never seen themselves in a mirror; they fly around the room, their wings whispering “I am beautiful, look, look, I am gorgeous.”
I can feel the moths brush on my skin, I sense the slight dust left on me when they depart. I don’t mind. They don’t know. They land on my hands, holding them, they make themselves into necklaces for me, flitting about in a circle around my neck, they sit on my shoulders and tell me stories of beautiful things.
I wish I could see the beautiful things the moths see. Through kaleidoscoped eyes everything is a magnificent painting: colors dancing, real-life objects turned into waving patterns of fractals. Nothing is real to the moths. They don’t see things as concrete, there is nothing to be taken seriously as to them life is nothing but a game.
The moths are real. They understand more about the human’s world than we do ourselves. I think the moths like me, they seem to never stop grazing my goose-bump ridden skin. I feel like I am a lightbulb in a dark room to them. I can feel so much energy pulsating through me, I must be exhaling florescent lights in place of the words that I feel I should be speaking out loud. Any words at all, the flow of captivating conversation will never be less than blissful.
But the moths can’t speak to me. They can’t hear my voice. They don’t need to, they understand.
These petite, grey-shaded, winged insects understand more than most walking, talking human beings. I can feel my connection to them like a static in the air, raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck. They travel to the brightest of places, and mentally, I am flying with them. We bond, through pure understanding of the other, coexisting blissfully knowing we are in the company of creatures with whom we are guaranteed a buzzing sense of community. We are the same creatures; at this moment I cannot understand why human beings continue to take totalitarian power over all other living things. Don’t they see that they are not threatened?
It is astonishing how our species sits on a throne, screened to the one glaring advantage the rest of living beings have over us. Humans communicate greedily, so much more than is necessary, on a massive scale and with such complications that miscommunications occur frequently, evoking emotion-driven actions against others whom we feel have wronged us. The moths don’t take revenge, and the trees never would act out unreasonably.
The other creatures continue to be ever-more calm and rational than us, understanding how to remain content at all times. They only stand in the background watching patiently, leaving all others to their own peace, and giddily accepting those of us who decide to venture into the wood and lay with them. Beginning a journey into the woods means losing all faith we had in humankind. That is replaced with a comforting wholeness we feel in ourselves. We must offer ourselves up to the trees, the sun, the mammals, the amphibians, every last biological structure right down to the moths. They welcome us to their world because they know we are the few who understand, who are completely willing to become one with them.
It is a backwards world I am living in. The ones I cannot speak to understand me. Those who can, use their ill-learned language to criticize and resent me as I fly, mentally, away from the corruption that has become normal.
But I don’t care. I’m reaching into the depths of my mind and and learning to understand the human brain in every way it works. I am going on explorations more beautiful than ever perceived as possible by the outsiders. I have souvenirs by the handful: a constellation painted in my mind, a stray cloud I picked up on my way home, a *** leaf flower-pressed in an orange and blue book, a notebook filled with our own kind of knowledge, friends who have found me in these woods, with whom I possess a happy-go-lucky unity unscathed by normal human tendencies, and an alternate breed of knowledge that lives peacefully yet thirstily in every cell of my glowing body.
The moths feel all of this. We become one with each other because I have become content with myself; those who walk in the woods possess no intent to hurt and the moths feel safe. Those who walk in the woods do not walk; we fly.
16 hours later.
I awake and there are no moths. There is no trace of them. There are no trees, no flowers; the alternate world I imagined is mockingly false. The forest is no longer vivid, for it has been hidden behind clouds of smog. The vibrant lights I once saw coming from my mouth are no longer animating my words.
In the morning this society I exist in is still mind-numbingly dull. But mentally, I am perpetually flying.

To the Ginger I Met on Tinder,

I'm sorry I didn't linger
longer in your arms,
but I've known you barely
three weeks and this is crazy,
but kissing you tasted like
ice water, not that it was too
wet cause it wasn't!

I'm doing this all wrong,
let me start again:
You see I don't take chances
on hopeless romances.
But kissing you was electrifying
like shock therapy gone
wonderfully, horribly, mind
numbingly...well. So well that
I lost my mind, temporarily.
I found it, unfortunately.
I found it was very confused.

You started out as a picture
on a screen, all I knew was,
red hair, big eyes, and nice arms.
Even when you were in front of me,
arms wrapped around me,
big beautiful eyes looking
down at me full of life,
even when I could reach out
and touch you, you didn't
feel real...

Do I feel real to you?
Do you wonder how to
make your fantasy feel
like reality?
Do you wonder if you should?
When the photo starts talking
back what do we talk about?

As badly as I want to
break the laws of physics
with you, I know I can't.
Because I don't matter, to you.
Nothing can be created from nothing.
My time and energy is not destroyed
by you it is only transformed into new
understanding of my standards.

Lightening bolts will never be
enough for me, they're too dangerous
too unpredictable, I crave constancy
alongside my intimacy.

So to answer the question
I hope you're asking yourself:
Yes you are kind of an *******,
but no you didn't hurt me.

Regretfully Yours,
The Blonde You Met On Tinder

Mulling about
The muck
The haunts we are hardbound
Foggy fetal leavings by the sea
Right before the light;
The days of purple haze
Of sallow street cars, street lamp,  amped up
Yet dampened loss of desire
Pop another oxy-hydro-fire.

To be able
To muck about
With inner abandon
the abandonments deep
Numb battlements   / "Hoorah!"
Semper Fi the pain
Only significant
With derivatives
From ******* plantations
Opioid addiction’s contractually binding
Lingering love notes
A vice grip on idle minds

So many now that prey
But with a side affect of
Try holding in your ****
for three-plus days

So as not to feel
Not at all
Not even the rage
We keep anxiously pacing
Clawing at
Nonexistent strings
A Beast inside our cage
Forgiven by preacher men
Proclaiming to hallelujah
Change

At war with illusionist
Freedom
The boys fight for still
A country of patriotic pill poppers
Believing in heavenly kingdoms'
Healing
Secret silent pleading
Because nothing takes away
The pain
Like Hydro Oxy foxy pills

Self medicate down wind of will
If unaffected "consult your physician"
He’s at the edge of the stage
A Spearmint rhino making it rain
For Peaches
From patient list of his *******
The business of lust
Is feeding the loss of will
If you still feel lost -- and war sure did
Give them nothing but
PTSD & bad dreams
Machine gun migraines
Pop another pill
Jagged little killer
Softly knocks you off your feet
Black is cheaper
Smoke out not to feel

The muck-about days of
Constipated pains
Reader Digesting heavily,
Numbingly unreal.

Casualty of a nameless waste
That’s his deal / what it's like :
Most fecund
A life on the toilet
In wait for relief…
Get off the ***
Can't give a ****

Like this bowel movement
His heart has called it quits
To all this unholy *******!
Veteran
Patriot
Manhood’s defeat
Damnation

Mucking about...

but I had to go mad
to become real
a diagnoses of mirrors
permission to feel,
I miss the drugs
when I swallow the medication
mind numbingly beautiful
with veins like seaweed
wavering in water
salty
thirst never quenched
I crave it like he does.

What am I between these driving
delusions of all my anxieties, aside?
When every moment is a revolt against
suicide and my steadying decline
and my internal monologue dissolved
into reminding myself why.
Who am I but ceaselessly unsure
of the lens of my own myopic, miserable mind?
Between the shadows stirring
in the corners of these drying eyes
and the alarming cry for predators nearby,
these countless confines multiplying wildly.
How often I find I am fighting my brain every second, all the time
my own excessive efforts led awry
as my uncertainties undermine.
But now all I know is I am finally
freeing myself from being so spine numbingly paralyzed
now that I've realized I lie
underneath somewhere within
the way of still waking up
from this frozen comatose demise.

We look past meaning, still blinded and dreaming of riches,
Which leads us toward track homes and condos, cruel chapels
While the hapless live in the world’s mansion: the most open convent
And what we don’t see is sometimes the crux of our content

The streets offer a morose array of the discarded
They, the wise and most wretched, who humbly suffer
Are perhaps the truest, comely Christian-hearted men and women

They bless the day as they pray to the ground
Where cracks become twisted crucifixes upon which
The most selfless are displayed for public derision.

Ironic is the formula written with precision on the tome of our existence
Iconic moments of pain bloom into the banks that loan out inspiration

Each electron is one thousand eight hundred thirty-sixth of its proton
And this proportion, though grandly and numbingly unimpressive
Is the basis upon which we live and whir and spin as matter does
Coincidence is a lie in the face of the certainties within what we cannot see

For, though one decade separated the births of Crockett and Bowie
And, though their names might conjure knives larger than pockets
And hats, stolen from conquered bandit-faced creatures’ tail ends
It was on the same 1836 day that they evolved from flesh into legend.

Joy is a strange element that seems to come and go without a plot
Yet some know how to wield their emotions with little thought
As if joy and love were as a hammer worn neatly at the belt

So, I yearn for one day to grasp a handle in a hand that has never felt
The shape of certainties, once discerned as chance and circumstance
And when the hammer falls, I hope it breaks a twisted crack into my heart

I hope to, from my reflections, thus bereft,
Find some perfection hidden deep in death
As one might decipher, through foreign language,
A light that warms within a sonnet

In a way, I think my life depends upon it.

the world is mind numbingly quiet
the streets drenched in nostalgic sepia,
the kind that ushers you into a movie moment reeling in
under the notes of a power ballad
and all of a sudden you just feel
alive but detached from your life.
your body is immobile in a moving vehicle,
your brain takes pictures
of the people that is around you,
and you realize that their life
is not yours.
they are under impressions of sunrises
and the shading of trees in the summer's sleep,
while you exist
because of the way the street appears
at night beneath the empty moon.

Today,
Something bit me,
An insect of some sort.
The next thing i know,
My whole right arm was swollen.
I coudnt bare the pain.
Tears run down my face.
I can feel the wound pounding, literally.
This wound reminded me of you.
How I dont know how to get rid of you.
How numbingly painful it is to feel you.
How i know that you will be gone
After a few days,
few minutes,
few seconds.
But the thing is,
I will never forget the pain
because of the scar you left
on my impeccable heart.

There are few times in your life,
That you can say you're close to something massive.
In which you've almost achieved something truly remarkable.
For some, the final moment of college,
The baby countdown, but for me...
Today marks the the beginning of the countdown to the end

This day, 11 months ago I happened to stumble upon someone I never knew would become such an important and big part of my life. Never did I expect the shy girl I'd met online in late December, would make such a tremendous impact on my life.
First came the awkward "hello"
Followed by a sincere introduction
(In which I'd be guilty of miscalculating gender... oh will I ever live that one down hides in shame)
It's one of the most beautiful things to fall in love
Even more so to feel the butterflies in your stomach grow everytime you see them come online.
Talking to you, became the only thing I wanted to do!
I'd rush home from school to jump on and game with you, talk with you and laugh with you whilst getting to know you all the more better.
We would spend hours on school nights, living in the happiness of eachothers company.
It is truly something, when you can look at a name on the screen as they  type, and realize you are
Completely
Utterly
and mind numbingly in love with someone based solely off who they really are
No looks, no sounds. Just personality and who the person is for them
You see I fell head over heels for you my love, you were perfection
It wasnt until a few months later that I caught a glimpse of what you looked like and honey, it was like seeing an angel in the flesh and boy did I fall hard for you. Call me obsessive, call me addicted. You were the only thing on my mind.

March 9th 2015,
"I know I say this alot but thank you. Thank you for always being there for me when I'm down in the dumps, to be quite honest, your the person I've grown close to most in my entire life. Thank you for l-liking me, y-you don't know how much it means to me...I-I'm really s-shy I know and t-this may make you feel a-awkward... b-but...I-I like you too h-hehe and I d-don't say the actual L w-word because it's embarrassing... I just wanted to let you know you mean the world to me..." - Sweet words that changed my life and I'll never forget them

Today marks just, one month from our one year anniversary.
Something I never thought I'd get to experience with anything,
Let alone someone like you.
I love you so freaking much,
You, my other half, complete me and I cannot thank you enough for everything and anything.
I'm sorry that it had to be celebrated,
With you at school
and 4hours of driving between us
But that makes it no less special because wherever you go
You'll always have me in your heart **
                                                              ­                                                *~ Ryan

I have been so mind numbingly lost between the static in this room that I've forgotten what your voice felt like. searching for the promises you buried in your pillow before I try to get out of bed every morning, I've forgotten what your hands sounded like. but, like broken glass on soft feet I walked recklessly into a fight I could never win with you. you were always stubborn and selfish. I spent years searching for reasons you couldn't love me in boys that swore they did and only ever came up with me loving you too much. I loved you too much I suffocated you with 3am drunken phone calls and 6am good morning texts. I loved you too much with surprise lunches and coffees when you're home alone. I loved you too much with poems and songs that have your name written on every page. I have been so whole heartedly consumed in your dark eyes I forgot how light your hair looks in the sun. I sold the devil my soul knowing **** well you never wanted me at all. but god knows I will always ******* want you.

I see you on beautiful days
the kind that make your heart stop and your mind take mental pictures,
when the sun is setting just rightly enough
that shadows are long but the day isn't sad because it's ending,
merely continuing its natural cause-
you are in those shadows,
your figure mirrored in their calm, lenghty presence
and in the words of the birds
speaking joyfully-
it's you they gossip and sing for.
The little fragments of light on the water
when the wind hits it like a painting
those are your eyes
your smile
the gentle paper noise of the leaves on their branches
that is your voice
speaking to me in a way nobody else has ever tried
a different language
all our own.
You're in the air itself
so clear and cool and mind numbingly brilliant
it's all you
even miles and hours apart
even while you're doing your actions and I'm completing my routine
and even when I feel lonely without you to enjoy such a wonderful sight
you are already here,
to selflessly make the sensations of existence just that much better.

To mull about

The haunts we are bound

Foggy cemeteries of cubic square feet

The days of purple haze

Of sallow street cars, street lamp, lamp light

Loss of desire

Pop another oxy-hydro-fire

To be able

To muck about

With abandon the abandonments

Numb battlements   / "Hoorah!"

Numb the pain

With derivatives

From ******* plantations

Lingering ghosts on our minds

So many now we prey

But with a side affect of try

Holding in your **** for three plus days

So as not to feel

Not at all

Not even the rage

We keep and hold inside our cages

Proclaiming to hallelujah

Freedom

We fight for the countries

And mystic kingdoms' reign

Because nothing takes away

The pain

Like Hydro Oxy foxy pills

Self medicate down wind of will

If unaffected "consult your physician"

At the edge of the stage making it rain

The business of death

If you still feel -- and war will

Give you bad dreams and migraines

Pop another pill

Jagged not to feel

The muck-about days of

Constipated steel

Numbingly unreal...

This is what it's like : life on the toilet.

Get off the ***

Can't give a ****

Like this bowel movement

My heart has called it quits

To all that unholy *******.

Melodies
mumbled through the corrosive
coating of plastic
pieces jammed directly into
damaged ear drums.

Songs
strained across beats
berating the mesmerized
mentality of awesome into the
auto-tuned automatons.

Notes
numbingly droned on rhythms
righteous in their
thinking that all problems are
part of the present past.

Words
are what brings the perfunctory lives of
people to a stop,
singularly holding onto
hell in lines and
living in the storing
of stories for
future generations to remember,
regardless of race gender or class,
creed religion or background.

Poetry, the
truly precious example of
earnest men and women
wearing their lives on paper
lined suits
strengthened by the emotional bodies
broken and bled for ink and
imagery, is capable of
capturing the base of humanity while
hearkening to the Immortal and his
ill-mentioned brother, is made
material by man and
meaning more to each whom
enter the world left
when they began, is
perfection without ever needing to
win, is love
without ever having to
hear the other speak, is everlasting and forever
evolving just as
all life does.

I feel nothing

Mind numbingly still

Glazed eyes will ****

Glazed hearts

Vacant sigh

Breathe

Nothing’s wrong

I feel nothing

Skin warm

Stars form

I feel nothing

Nothing’s wrong

Breathe

Vacant Sigh

My mom asks me what I'm studying,
And I say The heart.
Her interests peaks,
Because she's always seen
The body as a work of art.
She wants to know more,
So I give her the brief about pumps,
What makes it faster or slower,
But I don't want to talk about this,
In truth, I haven't told my parents much since I started to go here.

We've studied anatomy,
And how bleeding works,
Biochemistry,
And why swollen red skin
Seems to always hurt.
But the more I've taken in,
The less I've given out.
As if being an expert for only you
Is what becoming a doctor is all about.

I tell my friends my grades are good,
Though I definitely study less than I could.
And after saying school is fine,
I skip to some other line
Of thought,
Like I suddenly don't have the time
To include my friends in this new life
Of mine.
It's not that they wouldn't understand,
Because these pals are smart as hell
And it's not that they wouldn't want
More details than "I'm doing well."
And it's not that to learn,
You have to forget,
About the people who matter,
Who got you where you needed to get.

It's that this world is skull-crushingly,
Mind-numbingly full
And at the end of the day,
Escape seems the goal.
But creating two worlds
Makes it easy to leave one behind.
And I wouldn't want to lose the rhythm
Of my values
Just to learn more medical rhymes.

So I need to work harder
To tell my mom about the heart.
To make these two lives
A little less apart.
How there're really two pumps,
No, really there're four,
And in some people's hearts,
You can hear a dull roar
Of a valve slamming shut
Or opening at the wrong time.
And if you've got pulses in your feet,
You're doing just fine.
To tell my friends the truth,
Instead of sloughing it off,
That asthma and emphysema
May have a similar cough.
Or that there are really two systems
That your body uses to clot.
And platelets aren't the only
Thing that you got.

To become a good doctor,
I have to become a good man.
And I thought until now
That was a simple enough plan.
But it might not just be about
Good bedside manner and empathy.
It might be more about how I treat
Those important to me.
If I can give everyone Zach
Without a dodge or excuse,
I'll become a doctor in training,
AND a doctor in truth.

Delight!

A polite specter clasps the borders of my sight.

A slight incline of final flights of fancy forms the falling night.

Fright and fury forging flustered flames to feed The Furnace's Fight.

A foolish fate to sort through all those effing thoughts at night.

Delighted me!

Blessed ever be these visitors I see.

We shall lay together in a twisted manmade canopy.

A shroud of nightly norm invades and shades us blackened worms.

We wrap in squirming ratkings trapped and wriggling with older forms.

We shall raise the heat and torch to ash what flashing scenes reside inside dilated late-night features til each creature meets demise.

Let their burnt remains stay slain imbued into my insane cranium as numbingly I fumble back to scratch the corners of my former eyes,

then realize with--every tear I bare here-delightfully deluded sight.

White light!

Respite.

How old were you
when it turned out
that we only grow to die
and how long did it take
for that to terrify you,
and how long did it take
for growing at all to
make you sick,
how long did you live
before you were ready to die?
Some people never live at all
before they’re swept away and
some people try so hard to escape
and keep on failing.
Living is so awful, so
mind-numbingly painful and yet
- and yet and yet and yet -
somehow its so beautiful too.
Somehow we live only to die
and somehow we survive that short,
confused, horrified, hiccuping existence,
and make it worth it. How does
love work that it takes something
so tortured and impossible
and turns it into something
almost beautiful?
how does that work at all

Numbing

Numbingly

How a sad Singsong

Floats on along

In search of harmony.

Numb-ing-ly.

How I’d suffer

This miserable life with you,

Sour **** Lemony.

No song of suns.

Numbingly

I float along.

Numb.

To be alone, mind-numbingly so
To be quiet, to be invisible
One pursues the other, as they both row
By and by, forever in this fable
Throughout, hollow pain they perpetuate
A shell, empty, alone is meaningless
Never comes the drive to retaliate
For the truth speaks only under duress
Timeless oppression seeks only its host
*******, ethereal chains binding all
Soulless, are enterprises pursued most
Building up an image merely to fall
To be the only one, to walk alone
To live as that life, ideally shown

It's silly how
A little red number one
A yellow lightning bolt
Brings a rush of dopamine
So minor
Yet so addictive
That the aspiration
For validation
Might as well be so strong
That the cord of your mouse
Is shooting ******* through your arm
And moments are spent
Mind-numbingly
Refreshing the page
Just to see if a stranger
Not much different than yourself
Bothered to click a **** button

it is the saddest thing I know
a longing to be extraordinary
while being
**mind-numbingly
painfully
ordinary.