my nerves weren't born to lie dormant (they know this now)

while i let my nights turn to mornings, i spend a lot of time pacing. this is something i've said before and, though it doesn't do much in the way of elaborating on the writing that's produced during the aforementioned hours, it gives me an excuse to voice disdain about my main source of time-wasting; that way, i can feel a bit better about the purposelessness i, so often, allow myself to be preoccupied with.

essentially, i sometimes have trouble accepting the fact that some people just don't care enough about anything to be kept awake days at a time contemplating the futility of their own, supposedly important, self-investments.

i think i may just be jealous of anyone with a somewhat regular sleep-pattern. god damn diurnals.

my nerves weren't born to lie dormant (they know this now)

mutual sleep
minus the dreams,
we find, is an ill-fated request

at best,
water to follow the
bottled smiles

at rest,
next to our pasts,
we'll know what our futures
could look like

how they'll
seem so so surprising-
but won't be

because
whatever we decide
to worry about
will let us do just that-

(we walk because we can
and breathe because we don't know we want to)

we'll give flowers to the air
as the weight arrives,
apologies to our shoulders for
every phone call ignored

we'll find a song to match the distraction

burn plastic and melt glass over
all questions asked

and that'll be us:

aglow in gasoline clothes
like we all dreamed we would be

fighting cities

this piece, i suppose, was to kind of reflect on the span of my romantic involvements. upon recalling some things i've come to realize a few things; namely my incredibly discouraging record of experience.

i had no idea how much of a piece of shit i could be.

fighting cities

no rest for the truly despicable
left nestled in visuals
pressed to keep cohesion

too-frequently i neglect reason

too often i've played a part in
the dismantling of relationships
simply to relish in the demolition,
the shattered minutes spent being a battered vicitm,
the pattern rising from the skin,
the blood i've given;

it's no matter when or to whom
because i'll never get it back

my love is scattered,
to search it out would be like
chasing fireflies in daylight

and still i've done just that
attached to the passive suicide i find
inside my cigarette pack-

inside the ones that fail to impart
a lasting impact-

inside my empty stomach...

they say you are what's in your gut, right?

love birds and broken windows (in three parts)

i've become increasingly aggravated with my inclinations. all of them can have their up-sides, but the hindrances they prove to be, on rather regular bases, take their toll very swiftly.

claiming that what i do creatively is actually working toward bettering myself, i get away with a lot; mostly fooling myself, though, as i suspect many can see through my weak facade and know that i am just a scared and nervous introvert, struggling to make my way through or find my place in the current flow of things before i drown.

when i start to reflect too much on this i usually smoke a couple bowls and see what i can do to cope with this incurable listlessness.

aren't i pathetic?

love birds and broken windows (in three parts)

one.)
taking aim at a pen on its last drop
is like stealing a lighter and holding it hostage
(unbeneficial)

the problem with gods is
they always end up just like me:
jealous and mean

two.)
searching for words is a long walk
i've just somehow embraced it all and
left the shoes i wore out in the garbage

metaphors and facsimile
bunched-up in the pockets of a backpack;
ridiculed, while syntax battles for its straight break
and never hears the sound of the moving trains meant
to take me away from here--

though i know
no place is home for more than a place to sleep

three.)
if wheels never stopped
i could rest along my scheduled route

but instead, i sit
using music as an excuse
to close my eyes while standing and
forget all about blankets

to shiver and bite my lips until my teeth shatter

until sense bleeds from my smile--

here...
until my habits consume me