It may be a forever way:
the sense that I've wasted a day.
It's never enough, I'm never enough.
A lack of satisfaction
turns me to a form of distraction.
And I hate to love the aftertaste
of my own self-destruction.

I don't pretend to know,
I just rarely show
how incredibly unsure I feel.
What choice do I have?
I make a move and think,
"Well well, now I'm here,
what more can I do,
other than sit and wait
for the dust to settle?"

And the dust settles.
And I'm still confused.
Now the sun is up again.

I can't say I'm not afraid
of my own poor judgment,
my lack of self-understanding.
I could always use more grounding.

Imagine walking through one door
just to hear the final crash
of a thousand doors slamming shut,
locked and then dissipated.

And the dust settles.
And I'm still confused.
Now the sun is up again.

Into the great nothing
all the what ifs and could bes
go streaming away from me,
so I forget what my own heart sounds like.

And my body aches for myself,
for what I used to know,
for a home that ceased to exist
a thousand moments ago.

And the dust settles.
And I'm still confused.
​Now the sun is up again.

The thinly veiled pretense
of
"I'm doing something"
has begun to lose
its charm.

Everything is nothing.
Nothing is anything.

And no one 
knows what the hell
​I'm saying.

I get bored.
The emptiness of this
life takes
over
and I reach for
sugar, coffee,
whiskey,
another hit.
My phone.
Another hit.

Then it's 10:30pm 
and I'm reading (reaching for)
Bukowski again.
What a sad fuck.
But he got it.

Today.
Today I woke up to
someone else's phone buzzing
and blamed it on my
bedfellow
and woke up alone
hours later
to cancelled plans
and a fly buzzing.

Today's another
day
that I will watch
drift
away from me.

Useless.

​Empty.

My pounding head, my
heaving stomach
remind me of my constant
state of failure, falling
short.
Does anyone else feel
this way?
Does everyone else chase
themselves
​into the gray, to avoid the setting sun?

I've dreamed of impossible things
I have, and then
forgotten on purpose,
buried them under my daily
battles
against boredom.
They sometimes shine at night
and my whole
being shudders.
I have killed so many dreams
of mine.

I'm doing things
to get them
done, instead
of enjoying
what
I'm doing. I need
a night
​to myself.

Out of possibilities;
confusion and flight.
They hammer the
human,
put people out
​of themselves.

Things come and still
they heap themselves
so this existence
​is young, merging.