Find A Place To Make This Work
Not feeling so fucking hot. Feeling angry. Feeling put upon. Feeling.... too much. Too many feelings. Too many noises bumping up against the dark of the innards of the mind. Too little space in the universe for all these stars and people. I need more nothing. I need more emptiness. I need more of a void to throw myself and my hat out into.
Fuck 'em. Fuckers. They never appreciated that shit anyway. Just a bunch of formless sounds making themselves feel important by being louder and louder.
Tear it down. Bring in some salt water drops to simulate a sense of sorrow. That fucking cunt - she makes me want to die. She makes me want to tear my hair out in big clumps. She makes me want to crawl on the gravel and dig my nails into my skin. She makes me want to taste my own blood, warm and gooey on my tongue. She makes me wish I'd never met myself.
I wait for the shadows to grow up high, and then I crawl away, begging for more. More attention. More solitude. More of the rest. Less of you all. Less contact. I....
I feel the hate swelling up inside of myself. Anger. Frustration. The sense of always being in the wrong place first. I twist eyestalks together, vision blurring into a mess of frustrated half-moments all strung out like little junkies on a telephone wire. I wait for something to hurt, or to feel real good, or do just distinguish one moment from the next. I want it all, and only on my terms. Or on terms. No speaking terms. I'm on no speaking terms with the rest of the cosmos.
It's all I can do to not just pour on some angry music. Give in to it. Go break something. Cut myself up. Crack my coffee cup over the back of my head. Dust the floor with broken bits of glass. Throw out shit that belongs to other people. Set fire to this miserable fucking house and anybody who I might be able to leave in it. Lock the doors so you can hear their nails breaking against the wood as they try to claw their way free. Fuck you. If you'd wanted to live you shouldn't have been my friend. If you wanted any kind of a better life at all, you should've never learned my fucking name.
Yeah, this is what it's like. Sit down to write and wind up vomiting. Waste time. Waste my fucking life. Doing this. Doing nothing. Just clicking keys. Making no money, making no sense, just wasting my fucking existence on misery and misdirection. I'm tired of being on the losing side in life. I hate the winners. I hate these frames of reference. I wish you'd all just accept me or go away. Just go the fuck away.
Fuck. Why do I even live with myself. Why do I go through this? Why do I write at all? What do I have to express? What's it matter? What's it need? I'm not some fucking handsome tattooed rock star, so who cares what I fucking say about anything. The only people who are on my side are my fucking enemies. People I can't fucking stand.
Stab me. Cut me. Blind me. Bring the rock down. Let me just bleed tears all out this hole I've carved in the center of myself; the edges are rough, but that's because the knife was dull; the knife was built out of words I stole from other people. Other times. Other shit I just don't think really matters to anybody. Anything. Anytime. Whatever. These aren't real thoughts. They're just typing. I'm not a real person. I'm just typing. I'm not even alive. I'm just a type.
Fuck 'em. Fuckers. They never appreciated that shit anyway. Just a bunch of formless sounds making themselves feel important by being louder and louder.
Tear it down. Bring in some salt water drops to simulate a sense of sorrow. That fucking cunt - she makes me want to die. She makes me want to tear my hair out in big clumps. She makes me want to crawl on the gravel and dig my nails into my skin. She makes me want to taste my own blood, warm and gooey on my tongue. She makes me wish I'd never met myself.
I wait for the shadows to grow up high, and then I crawl away, begging for more. More attention. More solitude. More of the rest. Less of you all. Less contact. I....
I feel the hate swelling up inside of myself. Anger. Frustration. The sense of always being in the wrong place first. I twist eyestalks together, vision blurring into a mess of frustrated half-moments all strung out like little junkies on a telephone wire. I wait for something to hurt, or to feel real good, or do just distinguish one moment from the next. I want it all, and only on my terms. Or on terms. No speaking terms. I'm on no speaking terms with the rest of the cosmos.
It's all I can do to not just pour on some angry music. Give in to it. Go break something. Cut myself up. Crack my coffee cup over the back of my head. Dust the floor with broken bits of glass. Throw out shit that belongs to other people. Set fire to this miserable fucking house and anybody who I might be able to leave in it. Lock the doors so you can hear their nails breaking against the wood as they try to claw their way free. Fuck you. If you'd wanted to live you shouldn't have been my friend. If you wanted any kind of a better life at all, you should've never learned my fucking name.
Yeah, this is what it's like. Sit down to write and wind up vomiting. Waste time. Waste my fucking life. Doing this. Doing nothing. Just clicking keys. Making no money, making no sense, just wasting my fucking existence on misery and misdirection. I'm tired of being on the losing side in life. I hate the winners. I hate these frames of reference. I wish you'd all just accept me or go away. Just go the fuck away.
Fuck. Why do I even live with myself. Why do I go through this? Why do I write at all? What do I have to express? What's it matter? What's it need? I'm not some fucking handsome tattooed rock star, so who cares what I fucking say about anything. The only people who are on my side are my fucking enemies. People I can't fucking stand.
Stab me. Cut me. Blind me. Bring the rock down. Let me just bleed tears all out this hole I've carved in the center of myself; the edges are rough, but that's because the knife was dull; the knife was built out of words I stole from other people. Other times. Other shit I just don't think really matters to anybody. Anything. Anytime. Whatever. These aren't real thoughts. They're just typing. I'm not a real person. I'm just typing. I'm not even alive. I'm just a type.