I have survived sufficiently.
Though, not without some struggle-
Strife and I became very good friends,
~You see.

Chief among the strongest of my most
terrible experiences would be the loss of
~My best friend.

You see, I was 16 years old.
Though, I didn't always feel 16-
Dissatisfaction; my own predicament,
would be the downfall of you
~And me.

I can't believe the things
that changed; At one point,
most improbably so, I thought
I'd surely comprehend how we
~Were never meant to be.

So you see;
In the line a story was told
Silver was it's name-
And through each day I felt
the same, but you were never there.
Even if that is the truth
And likely born from our youth
I've got to end, my friend,
this dastardly affair.

Thrift store reverie;
Books and bobbles line the shelves
cluttered as can be,
Juxtaposed within my mind
surely reminds thee,
of me.

Uncanny in my tenacity
characterized by much veracity
Probably at my capacity
for dealing with too much tragedy-

A man who passed, his home the last place
I'd ever want to be, but the
comfort of warped wood chairs;
ancient glue and rusted screws, well
that's enough for me.

Cold sweats-forgotten regrets
miscellaneous thoughts about
all of the rest of my ****** debts
that I don't even owe to you, or anyone else,
for that matter.

For this matter, it doesn't matter what I think
or what actions I take, or don't take,
wishy-washy is my middle name
and sometimes
-it feels like you hardly know me-
my greatest friend: anxiety.

You've ground my teeth to dust
and creaked my bones the last,
I've done crawled out of bed
-which for quite long you've asked-
Take a long look at all the nothing
I've amassed.

Lately my years, they've blended together.
An amalgam of my bittersweet thoughts
too tasteful so that taste itself becomes meaningless,
a blur of flavors, a blur of time, a blur
in the sole blink of a singular eye-

-General-eyes-d Anxiety.

If you only knew
the person I used to be.
The way I looked at the world
was different then, not nearly
the same broken worldview
that now holds me-hostage,
Against my every wish and will.
Amongst the shattered glass doors
stands the new me.
Built from shards of hope and
fragments of happiness;
One might think me invincible,
but I know better than that.

Before all of this;
Before everything happened-
I was simply me.

Gentrified geriatrics fill the land,
to the brim I might add, and,
'perhaps its time we make a change' I've said,
not happy nor glad
about the situation at hand.

The common facade portrayed
by the majority of people
tends to be a **** poor
way of dealing with pain.

You know what I mean.

That mask that people don
as if it will save them,
save you,
from endless misery.

It doesn’t have to be this way-
It’s 3:06 A.M. And I can’t sleep,

****.