(no subject)
The clouds are hanging in the sky, penetrating our skyscape
like laundry hanging out to dry. White sheets and grey
bathrobes at the mercy of the wind. Because we are all at
the mercy of the wind.
Somethings gotta give. Something's gotta fucking give.
Wake up. Work. Clean. Cook. Television. Fuck. Sleep.
Repeat. What the fuck am I doing here. Repeated with
correct emphasis, what the fuck am I doing here?
I'm standing, sitting, laying, anything but moving.
My feet are in the starting blocks. Dust is gathering on my
heels. People keep acting like I've got a lot going on for
me. No. No, I do not. I have a lot coming to me. If I
can stay patient. Strike that. If I can remain to appear
patient.
The ebb and flow of life is hypnotizing. Rocking me, like a
baby, to sleep. And that can't fucking happen, because last
time I went to sleep I was under for a year and a half with
a blunt in my mouth and a blade in my hand.
At least once a day, everything around me comes to a grinding
halt, and I ask myself these questions. Panic ensues. Every
voice I have ever voiced is in my head screaming and
whispering and asking and telling.
What I wouldn't give to lay around my old friends' houses
and watch them play video games while I complain about boredom.
What I wouldn't give to sit in Waffle House every night for a
week complaining about the repetition of my life.
My life was repetitive before. Maybe even moreso. But at
least I enjoyed the repetition. What I wouldn't give to sit at
Starbucks and run into someone I know every eight minutes. And
I hated that. Or claimed to. Maybe it was the circumstances.
But these circumstances? I just want to be known.
The only thing between me and Texas is 60$ for gas and a
sleeping bag. Don't think I don't contemplate that every day I
spend here. I'm tired of telling people everything's going great.
I'm tired of entertaining people's notion of me moving to
California and making a new life for myself. It's nothing like
that. I'm here. I'm still shit. I will probably always be shit.
And tomorrow I will wake up and continue with the denial. They
say 'fake it til' you make it'. And I'm getting sick and tired
of faking it.
like laundry hanging out to dry. White sheets and grey
bathrobes at the mercy of the wind. Because we are all at
the mercy of the wind.
Somethings gotta give. Something's gotta fucking give.
Wake up. Work. Clean. Cook. Television. Fuck. Sleep.
Repeat. What the fuck am I doing here. Repeated with
correct emphasis, what the fuck am I doing here?
I'm standing, sitting, laying, anything but moving.
My feet are in the starting blocks. Dust is gathering on my
heels. People keep acting like I've got a lot going on for
me. No. No, I do not. I have a lot coming to me. If I
can stay patient. Strike that. If I can remain to appear
patient.
The ebb and flow of life is hypnotizing. Rocking me, like a
baby, to sleep. And that can't fucking happen, because last
time I went to sleep I was under for a year and a half with
a blunt in my mouth and a blade in my hand.
At least once a day, everything around me comes to a grinding
halt, and I ask myself these questions. Panic ensues. Every
voice I have ever voiced is in my head screaming and
whispering and asking and telling.
What I wouldn't give to lay around my old friends' houses
and watch them play video games while I complain about boredom.
What I wouldn't give to sit in Waffle House every night for a
week complaining about the repetition of my life.
My life was repetitive before. Maybe even moreso. But at
least I enjoyed the repetition. What I wouldn't give to sit at
Starbucks and run into someone I know every eight minutes. And
I hated that. Or claimed to. Maybe it was the circumstances.
But these circumstances? I just want to be known.
The only thing between me and Texas is 60$ for gas and a
sleeping bag. Don't think I don't contemplate that every day I
spend here. I'm tired of telling people everything's going great.
I'm tired of entertaining people's notion of me moving to
California and making a new life for myself. It's nothing like
that. I'm here. I'm still shit. I will probably always be shit.
And tomorrow I will wake up and continue with the denial. They
say 'fake it til' you make it'. And I'm getting sick and tired
of faking it.