inevitably unfinished
I can't fucking stand the hope -
expectation is the root of action anger laziness
i can't even write good poetry now. i hate that empty room
and there's still a person in it and i hate it for only reasons
no one suspects. i hate that it will always be empty.
hate feeling like an infant about it and worse -
infants can't be resentful... i guess.
i just can't stop hoping that every single this time isn't made up of the others,
it couldn't be anything but made up of the other this times:
it should have been a clue it was always set for summer,
summer means some time that is is always not now
and it never fits into the actual time that passes.
you keep dying over and over and over and fucking over again.
not you. tiny resentful dyings of the root thing.
irrational and impossible to explain without the words slipping
out of i want into i want not.
expectation is the root of action anger laziness
i can't even write good poetry now. i hate that empty room
and there's still a person in it and i hate it for only reasons
no one suspects. i hate that it will always be empty.
hate feeling like an infant about it and worse -
infants can't be resentful... i guess.
i just can't stop hoping that every single this time isn't made up of the others,
it couldn't be anything but made up of the other this times:
it should have been a clue it was always set for summer,
summer means some time that is is always not now
and it never fits into the actual time that passes.
you keep dying over and over and over and fucking over again.
not you. tiny resentful dyings of the root thing.
irrational and impossible to explain without the words slipping
out of i want into i want not.