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