Falsehoods with undertows

days upon each other while we keep trying to piece together every other sieve

if reincarnation is true
in a past life, we all were hated

forgetting the process of enabling. if i was told about this sooner i wouldn't have said so, otherwise what is the point?

knuckles crack into place while all us young, brash, insecure boys break each others noses over our own brand of spilled milk, crying pyrite tears for what we think we've lost
in reality we haven't lost anything, we're just in a process of losing and regret, vicious cycles and vichyssoise dreams,
we're all trying to get somewhere but swearing while bleeding doesn't help i can probably assure you
if x, why is it that it still pertains to how i react to current situations, is this hesitation par the course or just the sort of anti-ichor coursing through my veins
is it me or is this fear that makes me perspire

students rally upon the talking points of paid conmen, sputtering verse upon hook of Seattle Sutton recipe handouts and how to better our lives with a simple rag,
if infomercials were any indication, it is a wonder how we get through our difficult lives without killing ourselves (sooner)

shattered glass in bone
night time whimsy fluttering to the beat of the electronic kick drum
while we pray for sun in the days of rain

fuck

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my sleeping schedule has been entirely reversed. these days are getting longer and simple concepts of how i feel about things are difficult to put into words. i continue to do things that i invariably regret. i don't think you can say sorry to some things. or maybe i'm over thinking, once again. because not everyone is so single-minded.
fuck.

The rally of the tit and eagle

These nights i forlornly wonder how things may have been different
maybe if i were more witty or even more drunk,
it's all in the eye of the beholder

verily i often think about the possibilities,
perhaps.

your smile fucking kills me, it does, it really does

god i wish i were more of something , the aspect that i lack is frustrating or maybe even exasperating depending on the day
"i'm absolutely captivated,
positively elated"
while the hangman does his job, the recipient often wonders about the loopholes while avoiding the obvious reference, as i am skirting the object i wonder if a direct approach would mean anything or possibly hinder an "inevitability"

to become illegible is to understand there was nothing to convey in the first place, the gardener wonders if the azaleas are just an azalea or perhaps something more to the theme of the trite inanimate object

what is beauty?
what is preference?
what is this horrible grin i have after constant realization,
what is this rejection after constant realization,
why is it that things must become a rhyme and nothing more,
if it even becomes that in the first place.

in the first place the runner sprints towards the beckoning finish, awfully arousing the lonely babushkas watching from their familiar confines within their own carefully planned rough house

i am disgusted with myself.

i look at what i become, what i am doing
and it's goddamn ridiculous.
this isn't art, this is a fucking confession






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this will never change.

I wish I could spend this energy on this paper

by pressing the pin in at a certain angle and by using a physic terms i don't know,
i'm sure that i could remove my fingernails at an alarming rate. alarming for me,
and i'm sure everyone else.

wouldn't my parents be proud.

today i learned self-hilarious-mutilation as a form of endearment, a way to find peace in a closed world that is admittedly at peace if i would only stop being a dummy.
in a fisheye, everything is exaggerated. comically, we see each other as subjects of a great understanding,
a subject in a fine art photograph geared towards grandmothers of our gerrymandering lawmakers who wish to really be that "man" stereotype that we are constantly told to
"Overthrow!"
"Overthrow!"
"Overthrow"
through each lens we can see what we think we like to see, or b e t t e r yet what we think other people would like to see.
usually, we are particularly wrong in the process of believing that we are not yet deadbeat door-handles, willing to be turned a certain way just so that someone can "See inside of us! Understand me!" we cry, we long to be looked into, what is behind door number three longs to be shown,
you have to wonder who gets the car at the end of the gameshow if it isn't picked. maybe it is reused, likely it is given back, i'm sure an explanation is easily forthcoming but in my fantasy world i see rusted, bloody seats behind every forlorn gate of perceived wealth and greed,
if only we had gone with what the crowd said. conform, conform, conformitize
comfort in craft.
craft in peace.
rest in.
repeat.
breathe

show ourselves in pieces, better yet in tongues

if we are not understood it is my own damn fault

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the scots-irish are boring.

Finally; I can see that this is more than just amusing

inchingslowlycloserclaustrophobictimeframesmakingmefeelREALLYFUCKINGSTRESSED
sentences become feelings, feeling a sort of way of life, living, pursuit of happiness-

it's not a sham just because you don't believe in it.

turning the page.,.
"impotent rage"
ok, faulkner. let me tear a page from your book

plagiarize: not limited to words printed on paper.

piecing together fragments of bullshit masquerading as brilliance,a
ants moving in tight formation, becoming the exclamation point at the top of the ant hill,b
where is this mountain we've supposedly built,c
i can't see over this mound of fucking dirt,d
tell me there's a reason to be here because sugar ain't that sweet and i'll be damned if i'm going to harvest something i can't even taste,
e.
nding up becoming what I'm not? what I'll never be:
1. African American
2. Terribly witty
3. Next to you

...so is THAT what this is all about? again?

rapport, rampart, rap artists with gold teeth spilling ink upon pages about tricks and trades and money and fame, with their money on their skin and in their bones, within their bone there lies the thoughts plural of greatness of validation of belonging of possibly degenerative drug decay defecation defeating, delight at the thought of the new bass kick the new flow the new rhyme right wrong wither rather, would you?

lisa kudrow IS blonde, faggot

DEAD LINE

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currently: wondering what I'm going to write a 5 page paper about. due in like 7 hours. whOOps.
i'm performing by myself again soon. i really need to practice and sleep.
annendum: dear god I hate snoring so much. hoooooly shit

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Lately, I've been having a lot of dreams lately where, at some point, I find myself eating meat. I'm not quite sure how or why the situation always seems to demand it, but I immediately bite into whatever it is and IMMEDIATELY regret it. And I say to myself the same line:
"What the fuck, did I seriously just do that?"
Every single time.
Sometimes I try to spit it out, sometimes I continue to eat. But every single time I vividly feel that regret. I can see the texture of the bitten meat, the blood, the color, the defeat. It's very strange.
And it has been happening like a few times a week at least.
What

I constantly work with missed connections

Forget that I ever thought I loved you,
forget what I thought I ever thought I said I
forget it. just forget it.
I don't have to tell you anything, you've already forgot I said anything at all.

We are all denying ourselves. It's totally natural for you. We can't help it. I can't help it that I think I can't help it.

Every time I see your smiling face I can't help but wonder why I can't make it that way all the time

probably because I'm crazy or something.

I hate this already.

Confessions are second nature, its just another leap to put it on the page. Random sparks of brilliance form on the last coal miner's punch card/(do coal miner's use punch card)

(Q:who mines coal)
(A:jerks)

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today I thought about how I could hide what I think behind really dumb songs with really simple chord progressions. because it's not creepy or pathetic if you sing about it