I return home
from another long night
putting on shows for
people I do not know
and with people
I can scarcely
relate
to

my legs ache,
my hands twitch,
little bites and
bruises liter my body
like some kind of
war paint

there is no satisfaction
in this any more

there is a deep unfulfillment
in the life I am now living

I move slowly,
each action taking more
and inflicting more,
while I contemplate the
meaning of my life
(once again)
and look about my bedroom
wondering why I have allowed
it to become so
messy

Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.

NOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBODY
NOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBO­DY
GLASS SPIDER PINK SPIDER GLASS PINK GLASS
Glass Spider Pink Spider
The water's all gone. Hurt
Who hurt who hurt who hurt who hurt


If this is [--] also then what's to
stop me from the other.
I am so out of control.
Why am I living?
Everybody's got somebody.
Shining Star, everybody's
covered in scabs!
Why is this making me break.
****
What makes me want to [--]
My lack of control
My anger- lack of control of anger
Depression
Lack of movement
Failure to impress or be loved
or make an impression or feel
something other than longing


LONGING unfulfillment
I don't feel fulfilled
I am a half-eaten fruit
I will now rot.
And attract the flies
Become the soil of the earth

Is that a sign?

Believe in nothing
NOBODY

See value
worth
WORTH IN ME
Time is crawling

My arm is stung by nail bees
It feels good
I feel unfulfilled

They do this to me
Who wants a crazy bit(scribbles)ch
H(scribbles)

Worth is irrelevant
Worthless
The work is not worth the
work is not worth worth
Worthless
Loveless
Rotting


You don't miss me you dumb *******
I know where the tools are
I saw them today
My arm is twitching
I want to stab this pen in an eye
TOO DIZZY
Maybe if I
stop breathing just for tonight
I'll stop thinking
perhaps
I'm too much of a
coward
too smart though not smart
enough for anyone to want me
I want to pass out
how do I make myself
pass out without making noise

Everything in the room
is an implement


This past I dont
want to revisit
although maybe I
was better then
less bitter less
upsettable less
worthless

I Jammed the pain inside, to wait for the defects to reside. Today strays and wanders away until it's stuffed down inside the void of discomfort. Let's roll our imagination onto light able paper, light it, and watch it burn..

See because that's what addiction does. It overrides your body latching on your inner artistry for its fuel. Pretty soon you become a machine, something mindless. Fasten your seatbelt because your on auto-pilot.

Now the transactions of your body really start to inaugurate. Your internals no longer has what it takes to fight, to resist, so now come the alterations.The tips of your fingers go hand in hand with the tip of your tongue. How your saliva's lust for substance dismantles the chemical compounds. Your taste buds loving that all too familiar feeling. Your greed full blood consuming every inch of it. As the destruction slowly trickles down your throat your anxious. Then the finale comes, the moment you've been waiting patiently for  the manipulation and overhaul of your brain and your reality remodeled, your home.

In those seconds pain is never an option, never a thought. Your lost out at sea. But that's all it really is, seconds, minutes, sometimes hours, just a little more time to stick the dysphoria on the back burner. When in truth you've just deepened the scar and exposed it to infections. When it's gone your left with broken thoughts that feel unrepairable.

Addiction doesn't just come from pre-packaged materials, they come from every entity you wish that blocks the truth out. They come from unfulfillment , pain, and soak themselves until you are left with no control. You have to fight, fight for your life. Face the music

No one bears witness
to the loneliness that a man holds inside.
Therefor, No one can bring him comfort.

There exist no mountain high enough
to shield him from the tidal wave of doubt,
No fire hot enough to burn away his insecurities.
Nor a drug potent enough to hurl him far from reality.

His every dream and hope take the same
suicidal plunge towards unfulfillment,
as do his desires and cravings.
He's become all to familiar with this hollow shell
of existence that presents itself in his bathroom mirror.

Failure wraps around him
Constructing his every thought
and suffocating any sign of imagination.
His dreams vanish into oblivion
and as his vision fades to black,
the world whispers...
"You Are Nothing".

But, As his heart withers away
like a dying star...
His soul explodes with inspiration.
The windows of the night shatter,
Allowing the brightness of confidence to bleed through
and his faith be resurrected.
He gains the courage
to stand against the world
and even tho it opposes him
He continues to pursue that which he knows
can be accomplished,
Forgetting that he was ever... doubtful.

Losing myself in the messages,
trying to make up for every time i felt unwanted by letting this 23 year old i met at a party a year and a half ago bury himself inside of me, because someone finally wants me.
He craves my touch the way i crave yours.
The only difference is that i love you and the only reason he cares is because he isn't getting enough from his girlfriend.
So why not?
*Unfulfillment leads to ***.

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my vocabulary strength,      
nor my ability to string words into a clean knot of similes and oxymorons at a perfect length
where I appease the regulations of grammar,
and please the cynical brains of strangers,
I am talking about the sound trapped beneath the fat folds of my brain,
the trains of thinking, never-blinking, that keep my outcasted thoughts sane,
I am talking about the voice of a teen filled with angst and unfulfillment
hellfire livid, mistaken as tepid, burning inside the sanctuary's core that is my heart lacking of discernment

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my skills at spelling,
nor my knowledge of historical people invested in writing
although I could say I, myself, would become history
just because I write in my own disposition and misery,
but what good would that be?
That my pen speaks louder than my voice,
and that a stick of ink triumphs over the blistering fire raging in my ventricles
Are you not entertained?
Seeing me crumble like lava rocks beneath your toes
and soon, I will be one with the ash that aimlessly goes around
and around and around you and the others that detest my will to speak
because apparently I’m a silent know-it-all, too fragile and meek
to survive in an obstacle course that is my existence  
Enlighten me,
you people who hold the needles and threads
How dare you ask for my preference of color
if my liberty to speak is dead?

I'm never really good with words,
so maybe it would be better not to say them at all

Hamlet has spoken that amongst the earth are we but worms,
That the equality of all, in death shall be faithfully confirmed,
Ask the diet of worms, shall we be nothing but a wholesome meal,
That eventually rots and decays and inevitably reveals,
That the prior life was but a mere dream of subconscious scope,
In which man had had dreams and wishes and dearest hopes,
In which unfulfilled desires will unyieldingly linger upon,
The soul of those deadly beings that lay deafly a'sound.

For to live is but to live with neither regrets nor unfulfillment,
But with greater servitude and a single mere acknowledgement.
For to be deadly is but to rest upon the earth and live a life of view,
Seeing the world in greater lenses with greater vision unskew.  
And watch amongst the people of the lonesome land,
Yield the same misfortunes and actions that thou'st had command.
But speak not can you, for be'st the silent ghost you are,
And thou'st see upon the world must these idiotic beings scar.

But yes, speak not can you, for the watcher you be,
And observe the failures that the earthly beings see.

And through death have your name spoken and values sound,
For the great doings when living has your existence confound.
Oh, but to die without a name is but to live a non-existing life,
And for at the moment of death shall recalling strife,
That neither has accomplished nor achieved a greater whole,
And done'st nothing of greater value, but with death its toll.

But then, it be inevitable for the state of the freeing soul,
But upon such deadlying actions will thy face no one know,
For once the water of life has been engulfed us all,
Then never will upon the world can you a moment recall.

For death is but a barrier that burdens your hoping dreams,
And blockades the mind with tendencies in which it seems,
That death may bring the equality of beings to amongst us all,
For true equality must it been upon the worms we be drawl.

For in time, will the name be of existence no more,
Unless in life had you achieved something greater swore.
Oh, with aired lungs shall most beings hold no name,
But until spoken death, will some of their existence remain.

All meaning, no motion
Leads to the gallows of regret
All motion, no meaning
Walks the plank of unfulfillment
Sentiment and action must be wed
Though they exist in a divorced world.

They deceive us
When they say
"Hold onto your dreams,
Never let them go."

Because they never
Tell us what to do
When you dream
An Impossible Dream.

Such a dream
Can never occur,
Not because you lack the ability,
But because it would defy reality.

Some can learn to let go
Of such dreams.
Yet the cursed who cannot
Live tortured lives of unfulfillment.

So tell me now,
You elderly, supposedly wise:
What am I to do
With my Impossible Dream?

Operational anxiety. The words I've been using don't make any sense to me anymore. It's all quiet and I have so many questions. The mountains shout, "*******!" over the Gros Ventre. And I'm lifeless and apathetic about lessons. I just turn on the Philip Glass and go for **** misunderstanding. More of it is coming and somehow I allow it in. A me circle of despair, loss, and immense love. My subjects must be growing curiouser and curiouser. Some of these adverbs dress in white dresses with black boots and carry scars on their palms while they bribe you off their tears to crawl back into the dusty desert graves your skin wants back.

My oven mitts aren't even of animals. I stare at the deer and moose from our second story balcony. My wrists hurt in a loss of practicing this habit. Subject matter that burns through the nights where I don't sleep. I torment myself in nursery rhymes that don't rhyme. Beds that don't water themselves, and the stories that keep my fingers soggy and pruney, drowning their dactylic digits in infinite keyboard unfulfillment.

The music is familiar. It throws its knife-wielding notes into my gut- my innards are bleeding, and my headache is growing stiff. I could mutate like Alex Mac and operate in a vacuum. I could be an incubator of self-aggrandizing disastrous behavior, an awful diaspora of introspection, a sickness that starts in soft flesh and tissue and summarizes me in the faces and heads of people and children that never turned their heads to listen.

I am wrestling your poems out of your hands. A royal couplet you try to explode against your innards, and a ****** prose that cascades upon the walls, in a mushy textural, even artistic mess of crimsony soulless words you throw around, things haven't changed but you I think you were just pretending to be haunting.

Winter hoarfrost and summer sweating. Integers upsetted by short-acting suns and cold and chilling dips in frigid waist-high water. The rocks are slimy and I don't feel like the fires are still coming. I point my nose to the water and take fifty paces. When will I have my forty-two minute day. Children are ***** liars and ought to have no sugar or treats. But let's not feed them from bowls we place on the floor.

My fingers are freezing, my cheeks, nose, back, and elbows too. I am smoking and never going to stop. I have met Joe Black and he tells me he used to command David Berkowitz into shooting people in cars, so I tell him the only thing certain in life is death and taxes, and that we need a new dishwasher, a cheaper place to buy ice cream, and a rough concrete square of floor I can torture myself for experiencing too much as human.

******* once swept past my door stopping only for a brief moment.
Wreaking havoc Straining, spitting lunging anger and misdirected truths
Smiling softly, throwing insults into a face of innocence
Destroying the essence of beauty and faithfulness

Pure love cast aside by wickedness, Unfeeling, unjust accusations
Unmatched fury, bitter pride spewing forth obscenities of half eaten hate
A future wracked with pain and sorrow, desolate emptiness never ending fear.
Crushing resistance of commonsense, ending all hope

Fleeting moments of happiness, promises made, promises UN-kept, wringing hands of frustration
Stirring emotions of unfulfillment, and discontent
Seeking “nay” desiring solace in the arms of understanding
Giving all, breaking all vows for moments of contentment

Only thoughts of death to stop the pain, only to wake and feel again
Selfishness rears its ugly head, and smiles at the havoc wreaked
Love nurtured from an evil past, masked by innocent eyes.
Black sated desires, Intentional destruction of love.

Wilted rose clinging to hope. Unnoticed tears, fear supersedes all
Numbed pretense of happiness, escape inside.
Wander through mundane existence, Empty smiles, and soulless eyes.
Watching lovers embraced in happiness. Endless envy.

This prison, this life of darkness, this shameful  existence
Hold together your true self. Unlock the beauty inside.
Wisely hear words of knowledge, speak to the pain. Re-live to lessen the hurt.
Open doors long locked, enter the domain of evil. Cast out doubt, and insecurities

An extended hand of happiness and safety, unconditional affection.
Surrender to love, and tenderness, embrace childhood dreams of love.
Awaken to a smile, a slight kiss, a lasting embrace
Sweet whispers of undying love. All passions fulfilled.

Written by
Edward Green

If I were to write a poem tonight,

Would it be about the drink growing warm in my hand, or
The cigarette I'll surely be smoking soon?
Would it be a about the day's labor and ...
Unfulfillment?

Could I write about a niece's laughter and value
Beyond money, beyond time,
In concert with the antics of a duck and a bear?
A laughing child,

Who's eyes are tumultuous seas of frustration
And pride, concealing the machinery of wisdom
Behind a simple facade; her nose
Is running, but

Is an act of kindness,
(wiping a 2 year old's nose) a poem?
There is discomfort and confusion, there is
Struggle and pain giving way

To trust, to care and to love.
And she smiles, and she says,
"Thank you," and forgets for a moment,
And asks for her bottle.

And if I were to write a poem tonight ...

Red lipstick, red silk. Forget them.
They don’t matter.
They will be removed,
lost somewhere in the
throes and thrusts of temporary
passion that he will soon forget.

I want to be irresistible,
to be remembered,
to be desired.
My wish will never be granted permanently.
I am unremembered, undesired, unloved.

This desperate wish
of a woman who has already
given up on herself,
submitted to anger and unfulfillment.
The loss of innocence, chastity,
the curse of reaching maturity.

He is only mine physically;
he dreams of someone else.
He doesn’t even realize that I am here
or that that I want to be,
that I want to mean something to him,
to someone.
While he is with me, he dreams of her.

*I am the lust.
I am the passion.
I am the wrath.
I am the sound.
I am the confusion.

Regrets fill my spoon like alphabet soup
spelling out my unfulfillment
with tiny little letters
nagging at my mind

And conflicts own me
except there’s no angel and devil
it’s just lesser evil versus lesser evil
No winner- I’m pulled apart

What if I say this
no- I can’t- too risky
but then I’m miserable
is it better to be miserable?

my daily thoughts
when it didn’t use to be
Tears are more common
than going out to eat

I am ashamed
and also ashamed I feel ashamed
I don’t want to be fragile
but I let myself fall into a crater

And people see it on my face
and I see it in the mirror
the way I once was
all entangled now in another

we don’t choose to fall
that’s the point of falling
it comes out of the blue
after you’re tripped up

And then the hurting comes
always after- like a scraped knee
and they say time will heal it
but how does that work when you keep tripping

a spinning cycle of get hurt, feel bad, tell someone, feel bad
goes on repeat, load never unloaded off my chest
The worst part is letting the hope build up
and getting let down, time and time again

Why? out into the oblivion
we ask ourselves
and How? do we keep moving
when the daily routine feels heavy

I thought my Achilles Heel was the fatal flaw
but really it's my heart, the hope, the love
when conflicts dance around
the only thing to do is write about it

disrupted soul
do you seek me?
i warn you of my guidance
for i walk with shaking legs
delighted, am i
that you have met me here
in the land of unfulfillment
for tomorrow we set forth
to discover a quiet land
and on the journey, i am certain
we will find the missing colours
from grey cloaked shoulders
and dimly cast our awakened dreams
on the new horizon

you're so used to being able to abuse whoever you want
that you've started abusing me
like you three are somehow above me
and I'm not a real person with feelings,
I'm just Maddie Foley
and I don't count or
something
and if I get mad when you treat me like ****
then 'whoa man we're just kidding'
and YOU get mad as if i dont have a right
to stand up for myself
and you think that 'that's just our sense of humor' is a good enough reason
to attack and abuse and control
and you don't even see that that's what it is
but if I get upset, I'm 'too emotionally involved'
no, you just don't want to put in the effort to fix yourselves
so you're going to keep abusing each other
and you're never going to address any issues
because you don't care enough
and emotional baggage is a huge no-no
'that's not what friends are for'
have you ever had friends?
oh, right. you've only got one, and your sister.
but I can't say anything because if I do
then there's obviously something wrong with me for not accepting and supporting your 'unique' type of friendship
because you've always wanted to be unique,
probably more than anything else,
and maybe love will fix the issue
but not if you despise the idea of love
and hate talking about it.
and maybe it DOES work for yall, but emotional unfulfillment
sure as hell doesn't work for anyone else
and unless you're willing to develop your character so you can actually
build more relationships than just one,
then you're gonna have a difficult time of it.
if you just search for people who will accept you for 100% who you are now, even at your worst personality,
and don't push you to be better, then you will find a very small percentage of friends.
Relationships need work.
they will never be instantly perfect.
but you don't want work, you just want
to hang out and not talk about issues or problems at all
you don't want to clear the air
you just want to exist, as emotionless and painless as possible
which is exactly what I don't want.
so I tread on and let it continue.

You may well feel as though you have found the key, the missing link, and the answer
But know that this is only temporary
Like the receding tide, this sense will fade away
Deep inside you will feel it again
The unfulfillment
It will continue ro return
Untill you truly realize that you are already fulfilled
Your existence is the collective breath and entropy of source
You fulfill your purpose simply by realizing who you are
And you do this, only by letting go of all you THINK you are
All you call yourself
All that they call you
What can harm you when you discover this truth
This awakening

I want to write
a poem,
about myself.

Of death,
and exquisite joy.

Weeks on end
with constant pressure,
small breaks,
and no woman to talk to.

This poem,
this life is filled
with unfulfillment,
and then when it isn't,
it haunts you.

Drinkers drink,
smokers msoke,
most of the time
it goes hand in hand.

Sometimes I hate
being the man
to bear the dead weight.

And no, I am not alone,
but,
because of myself,
I am alone.

Having not seen much,
everyday that I grow
is an explosion,
a catastrophe
and then heaven.

And not always heaven,
never when you expect it,
when you need
it.

But heaven when you're being selfish;
when you is me,
vice versa,
and it washes over and you spend
all week
trying to atone for not fully enjoying it.

How much should I wallow in the peace
that sprung from the muck of deep sin?
how much should I allow myself
to feel lowsy for not
enjoying respite?

How many people push
against themselves,
only to realize they're wrong,
and wrong and wrong?

I am always realzing;
always a realization
of myself, of us
through me. And I am trying to be
less arrogant. But
I know things are right;
I know the evil I have
perpetrated against me,
and you,
and I know that isn't always the case.

I know the good.

So, I am tired
of bone and dry,
and full of milk
and honey.

But even though fatigue
settles,
like dust,
I am fine with
this.

I know that this
is. And I am at home
in
this.

I carry my heart
Even when split

As my love monopoly is shattered
I cater to the worries of later

Tending to the blood shed
Wandering a realm of nothingness

Seeking the wrenching guilt will not descend
Buoyantly moving in
Seeking to feel the sinkhole within

Before, she loses all hope
Before she goes over the cliff with no end
Infinitely, dark, cold, and ridgid

I travel the sea
Awakening the clouds above

Mesmerized by unfulfillment
Enthralled in a daze,
She steps forward

The lily turns gold
In the valley she has found her home

Her eyes close.

I found, between the cosmic doom
And manic laughing states,
Is where no more than boredom floats
And unfulfillment waits.

Some will turn, that want relief,
To ***, or drugs, or love.
Some will find just one is weak
And take all the above.

But others have much looser grips,
And joy slips through the three.
And that can make existence bleak
For those in life like me.

Scream into your pillow that unscrupulous emotion
Cause your day brought you unfulfillment in one swift continuing motion
Sleep will come slowly and perhaps you will not dream
Maybe this will be the night that doesn't wake in a scream

Morning comes, you forget the night, fear of remembering darker places
Because if you do, it just may allow you to crawl along the spaces
It's all connected in our minds collectively throughout the night
As we traverse dimensions some seen before, some never and it's a fight

Learning to crawl so we can walk
Learning to cry so we can talk

Learning to feel so we can relate to each other
Learning to stop screaming to love to love one another

Why not?
Rain is gloomy when,
It watches that one grey Umbrella
Walking down the street
All alone
His transient feet
Sinking into it's core
With each step
It comes closer,
To accompany him,
To make his tears Disappear
Somewhere in it's droplets
Alas!
All it's capable of doing,
Is drenching him even more
Drowning him
Into it's waters
Deeper, deeper and deeper...
Oh what a misery!
Of the fulfilled unfulfillment.

It’s selfish of me
Hoping you’ll never get over us
When I perjure myself daily
Claiming I wish the best for you
It’s wrong that
We were never technically “us”
But I’ve already
Seen our life together
Paradoxical that
In this short time
I became disinterested
In the vast sea of options
Wishing, hoping, waiting
You’d come to your senses
And see that your heart
Beats to my same ache
I’m sorry that I
Assumed the worst in you
But you assumed
The worst in me
Perhaps that’s why
I’m drinking here alone
While you determine
Your next receptacle  
It would bother me but
I know you
Like you know me
She doesn’t matter
She matters to me
Next in the long line
Of unfulfillment
I wouldn’t do the trick
How unfamiliar will
We become?
How quickly have you
Been able to move one
While I sit here
In anguish
Longing for the touch
And smell of you
Laughing at my desperate words
Unable to stop typing
Or make sense
Of the outcome

Those things I say
To all of you
Multiple times a day
Are only half true

My logic less than flawless
Only trying to convince myself
That I'm over your dimples and coolness
Another book on the bookshelf

But there are holes in my lies
That we can all see through
I'm saying these goodbyes
So that I can stop being high on you

The plan isn't working
No surprise
But maybe I'm finally learning
That there are other guys

But the hardest thing to learn
Is also the most importannt
Not to always yearn
For that always ends in unfulfillment

Every night, lying awake, staring at the ceiling.

Pretending that things will get better.

Pretending that it will pass.


Empty even now. When I should be happy.

When the problem has been resolved, and the feeling still remains, more problems are revealed.

What can I do to change it.

I know sitting here will do me no good.

Does writing these even help?

Has my escape been corrupted?

Does anyone even care?


Sounding pathetic, as usual.

The only thing you're good at is feeling sorry for yourself.
Why don't you just do us all a favour and ...

Surely there was more to you than that. Has the soul left you?

Has the essence of what made you gone to a far away land.

Does it call to you?

Do you want to join it?

Who are you? Really. Look at yourself. Make up your mind. Living in a constant cycle of disappointment, unfulfillment, and misery is no way to live.

Just stop talking

Just stop trying to make others relate

Just stop typing

I used to believe that...
I was born with a hole in my soul,
I felt a bit too much,
And that all of these highs and lows are abnormal.

But what if…
It’s you with a gaping hole in your soul?
A dark abyss where your morals should stand
& numbness where your feelings should lay?

This unfulfillment I feel is not emptiness,
It is simply the absence of life that I crave in my soul.
The feelings that I capture only a glimpse of in my dreams.
The feelings that I endlessly search for..
They are here. They are everywhere. But they are hidden and so out of reach.
By you.

It's not that I feel too much,
It's that you feel too little.
And you've conditioned yourself to accept this absence in your spirit,
That it is just a part of life.

When I feel so low.. You call it an illness when you are the one who is sick.
This norm is not normal at all.