mock me

could it be a trap? yes.

bad 90's rock, I'm silent. sitting in a bar, alone at a table of four.

mouths move, as per usual, my migraine increases. Forcing a smile, they do not notice, I'm on the brinks of, anxiety.

But why would anyone care, really?

They're all too caught up in the range in genre of music playing over the speakers.

Alice in Chains were never a good band.

fuck off.

grunge rocked.

such, a perfect day

pinot noir, cat calls, howl. Night owl, waking with cum caked onto your mouth’s corner before day breaks. sworn to be the better person, no wrapping paper required, no frills, no bells and whistles for unconventionally unconventional relationships. Slippery fingers, sloppy seconds around three PM. Staring at a cursor, licking blinks of desperation, reach out. Pull out.
Towel dry , comfortable. Cozy , squeaky clean, pondering.
“I know you’ll never love, so I’ll continue fucking”
Is public display such a bad thing when everyone believes they’re not worth the wait?
He is, she is, they’ll say. A story in six words, a fuck in two minutes, a bond in a look.
Adore in a day.
Life versus Truth
Me versus You,
Your face.

thoughts of glory

Must I constantly listen to friends fall in love and feel nothing? where have my emotions gone? where have my signature characteristics escaped to? It makes little to no sense, I'm sick of writing about bullshit. about him or him or him, Is all I will ever know MEN? must I constantly question why & why & why? Why must I, constantly question? Maybe I'm numb because I've lost purpose. But, I thought I'd found it, Even though, it is, slightly, less. This is the least I've written in a long while, I find myself mocking others, trying to rediscover, my style. I thought I had one, one, I thought I had a lot. It's dwindling. It all fades eventually. My heart takes it hardest, hardly pumping. I often forget what I'm doing, when it's being done. A zombie while minutes pass, my appendages taking me from A to B, but my mind's abandoned me. I'm easily annoyed, easily bored, I'm boring, I can hardly contribute to conversation, even if I have an evident opinion. Then, I'll rant, & weird out the rest, I'm critical, to everyone & my surroundings, to myself. I hardly believe much of what most people tell me. I'm rambling, I feel like I could be dying, my ambition is hardly helping.

Stop fuckin laughing. I don't find it funny, anymore.

I'm,

still crazy.

or, At least that's what the voices tell me.

& yet.

She’s used to be used, she’s never bored because she’s never boring. Shorty, she’s a 10.
She made the front page, She’s got her name in the papers on the backside. She’s double timing, a two-timed, tag team. She’s a dream girl, a succulent creature. She’s kutt. She’s a cunt. She’s a whore that has yet to be treated, She’s diseased, so they say. She’s filth, rotting, hole of a whole. She’s whole hearted, she’s well-willed, a mature nature breather, breathing. She’s fire breath, a dragon lady, She’s a screaming lunatic of natural behavior. She’s crying obscenities. She’s couth, she’s sophisticated, she’s violently driven. She’s untrustworthy, She’s the best friend. She’s pretty enough, She’s star struck, She’s stricken.
She’s dying, she’s death, she’s dead.
She’s sex.

can't i?

reading, snot nosed, uninspired

not a single ounce of satisfaction, an overwhelming warmth

from the lack of desire to write

my own fucking words

it's a new year and the newspaper tells me I've yet to find myself

losing my head seems so simple.

the space walker. the cadet.

debt paid to thousands of articles I could have written

but chose to read instead.