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.
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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. |
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January 2018
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