There is only imitation
In grains of matter;
In rays of spattered light.
Nothing you could
Dare to scatter
Or enrapture in my life.
So I say goodbye
Though I commend you for trying.
I’ve come to like
These empty rooms
And echoes like tombs.
I think I’d rather
Don’t come around,
There’s no one home.
For the nightmare of all dreamers
And of a monster’s dream,
Meant to murder all your townsfolk
Lured alone to the scene,
The disaffected stars are gone
In the places no one’s ever been. .
(or, in that case, will never be again)
Tried but true,
Blamed and bruised.
We may know the difference
Between love and abuse,
But walls come up
And walls crash down
And dirt is thrown over
The residents of town.
If you’d pick up
Your mobile line,
No need to talk of
Perpetual decline. .
Tell me where you are;
What you’re doing. .
That your smile is
And I will sadly say
That the haunts control my day
And each is worse than
Over and again
And that life
Without your love
Must have been
The original sin.
Don’t you ever give up on me.
As I’ve long done
Pick up your fucking
Phone for once.
I’ll be polite.
I’ll ask you to lunch.
I’ve been trying to spread my wings. . .
To get back in the swing of things.
We both laugh together.
But the undertone
Is far more sinister.
How can you see the good in me?
Is your vision x-rayed or is my aura displayed?
Surely it is black and blue
Like my heart that’s held with glue.
You cast your green eyed glance
With infinite chance bestowed upon me so.
I let you down
I keep letting you down
Yet you keep me in your home
And in your bed if it suits me so
Or the attic if I choose to go.
I’m either inside you or gone wayside.
Yet you keep me alive as if I’m your pet
Or a child with the wrong mindset.
Beautiful woman both broken and wise
How do you let me tell you lies?
Or allow me near your own offspring?
Surely you’ve reserved something
That makes you wonder if its right
Or if I’m adding to their plight.
I have to repair that motherly stare
Of which I’ve become so aware
Of my shortcomings.
And all the things
And ways that I’m unworthy of you
And all the good you choose to do
I’m absolutely gone.
How to repair what I’ve done wrong
When I’m so sick and dead inside.
I don’t deserve to be alive
Least of all the love you give
I’ll try to fix it as long as I live.
Today’s the day I find a way
To make me worthy of your violet rays.
Briley and I are done. She’s moving to Tennessee before the end of the year, and neither of us wants a long distance relationship. It was about that time anyway. Sadly, anything that becomes more than just a fantasy for me inevitably loses its appeal. I really ought to never have gotten into the whole relationship thing. I feel I’m meant to be lonely and alone. Something I’m used to. It’s part of who I am. Everything I want is a mirage.
I’ll be alright, I’m just a little down and disappointed. Melancholy might be a fitting term for how I’m feeling.
As for the little story I’ve been writing, I think I need to take a short hiatus from that as well. It’s taxing for me. Writing is a rather difficult process and I have very little education or experience to begin with. It’s been therapeutically painful. I do fully intend on finishing, though. It’s something I must do.
That’s all. Just an update on how things are going in my life. Not exactly at a high point tonight.
I think I have a ghost on my trail, or something. Today went fine but of course I started thinking. You know I used to wish I had brain damage so I wouldn’t have to torture myself constantly with my own thoughts. Yeah yeah, not a wish you want to make, blah blah. Well it serves me fucking right because now I do have a form of brain damage, except it’s called schizophrenia and it only amplifies the chaos in this seven-layered-labyrinth in my head. That’s why I quit wishing for shit a long time ago. One reason, anyway. Of many. . .though it can all be boiled down to one simple fact: wishes and even prayers are a waste of time and deliver on a rare enough basis, that coincidence starts speaking to you more than god or even the people around you.
The problem with real people is that they’re never exactly what you would want them to be. That’s how I know I’m real, too. (Yes, sometimes it is that hard for me to tell.)
Far as reality goes, one curvy bitch of a road. . .one straight shot is that I’m unhappy about being more dependent than dependable. More explosive than comforting. Less human and more of something that can’t be named. Whatever it is Briley sees in me must reside permanently in my own blind spot. This sweet young, and happy woman loves me. This should make me happy, but thinking about it I realize: the longer she stays with me, the more stress, bullshit, and possible mistreatment she’ll be exposing herself to.
I may have had a mini-relapse last week but it was just that — a scale replica.
Not to mention I can’t ever seem to be happy about anything.
And I bitch about the fact.
I’m a barrel full of fucking monkeys. It’s on fire and the monkeys are stuck inside.