I hadn't left the bed for days
psychotic,
but I knew something that most didn't.

it meant something
it was rich.

like all the songs
they don't play on the radio anymore.
like all the writers
they don't read anymore.

me and her
me and her, we've got the same problem.
but they don't listen to us anymore.

I've got it bad, I've got it bad
and the *** cascades over me like
a waterfall in hell.

we're not meant for this world,
not meant for these things they subject us to.
and we can't relate,
at least I can't.
I've got nothin'.

it's a nothin'ness that gets stronger with the hours.

it grows stronger as I grow weaker.

---

I slept and I woke up
and I drank and I slept.
and I woke up a week later
feeling more like myself.

I've always analyzed things too much
but I'm rarely right
and I used to fill in the gaps of
things I didn't understand with things
I thought
were maybe
archetypes
and always true,
but, no

nothing is constant and I sometimes
forget that the voices coming from
the speakers are
just voices

who know nothing more than I do
about life and the things we're supposed
to feel,
but must be mad enough to
scream their story at me.

but these don't help
and won't help
because as much of a fool as I may be,
I know the difference between
reality and idealism.

no, I don't care for the sun.
I don't care for the summer months
that blind me with heat.
I fall asleep so easily
with the runners passing by.
even now, it's nearly autumn and they run past
at 5:28 in the moring.
jesus ****, go to back to bed.
but I suppose they
could just as easily say the same to me.

go back to bed, you purpose
driven *******.
go back to bed.
go back to bed.