The days have turned to nights.
While the nights still hold their rights.
Awake.
Every day is abnormally the same.
I wake.
I breathe.
I eat.
I smoke.
I drink.
I write.
I think.
I develop ideas that are seemingly going nowhere.
Because,
Well,
That's where they've always gone.
Nowhere.
Abyss.
A direct path to the event horizon.
Contemplate social conformity.
Sell out or buy in?
What's in it for me?
Why comply with what I don't agree?
I'm selfish.
I don't understand why people like me.
I'm awkward.
I never know what to say.
I can't keep a legitimate job.
And I'm only nice if it benefits me.
Reflection.
Contemplation.
Preparation.
Inability to deal with change.
Lack of genuine fucks to give.
Hope that I can do something with my writing.
Hope.
Faith.
I can't get rid of them.
I keep writing.
Maybe someone will read it and feel comforted.
Maybe someone will read it and care.
Maybe someone will read it and hate it, despise it, abhor it.
Maybe I will get some kind of attention.
Maybe I will get some kind of understanding.
Maybe I will get some kind of feedback.
Maybe one day I'll know what to do with it.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
The child in me is where my hope resides, lingers.
I wish it meant something.
The way I am.
The way I think.
The way I write.
I wish it really mattered.
And I wish it was okay to matter.
I wish it was okay for people to share intimate thoughts.
I live in a world where materials cease to exist.
I live in my mind.
I live in a dream.
I live in the unseen.
Every day is like this.
I've forgotten all of my dreams.
Though, they still exist.
Every day is a struggle to be a better day.
Every moment I'm awake, every breath I wish I didn't take,
Every life I contact, every thought I think,
Are all hopeful progressions, lining the brink.
The day of death.
The day of dreams.
The day of life.
The day of night.
Everything is an inspiration.
Everything is a conspiracy.
Everything is delicately connected,
By my self induced fallacy.
So, I sit.
Alone.
Absorbing all I can.
Away from the world...
Away from my friends...
Away from life...
Away again.
I promise I care...
Even more so when I'm not there.
I care more than I care to admit.
I just can't find my cares right now...
Or how they're supposed to fit.
While the nights still hold their rights.
Awake.
Every day is abnormally the same.
I wake.
I breathe.
I eat.
I smoke.
I drink.
I write.
I think.
I develop ideas that are seemingly going nowhere.
Because,
Well,
That's where they've always gone.
Nowhere.
Abyss.
A direct path to the event horizon.
Contemplate social conformity.
Sell out or buy in?
What's in it for me?
Why comply with what I don't agree?
I'm selfish.
I don't understand why people like me.
I'm awkward.
I never know what to say.
I can't keep a legitimate job.
And I'm only nice if it benefits me.
Reflection.
Contemplation.
Preparation.
Inability to deal with change.
Lack of genuine fucks to give.
Hope that I can do something with my writing.
Hope.
Faith.
I can't get rid of them.
I keep writing.
Maybe someone will read it and feel comforted.
Maybe someone will read it and care.
Maybe someone will read it and hate it, despise it, abhor it.
Maybe I will get some kind of attention.
Maybe I will get some kind of understanding.
Maybe I will get some kind of feedback.
Maybe one day I'll know what to do with it.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
The child in me is where my hope resides, lingers.
I wish it meant something.
The way I am.
The way I think.
The way I write.
I wish it really mattered.
And I wish it was okay to matter.
I wish it was okay for people to share intimate thoughts.
I live in a world where materials cease to exist.
I live in my mind.
I live in a dream.
I live in the unseen.
Every day is like this.
I've forgotten all of my dreams.
Though, they still exist.
Every day is a struggle to be a better day.
Every moment I'm awake, every breath I wish I didn't take,
Every life I contact, every thought I think,
Are all hopeful progressions, lining the brink.
The day of death.
The day of dreams.
The day of life.
The day of night.
Everything is an inspiration.
Everything is a conspiracy.
Everything is delicately connected,
By my self induced fallacy.
So, I sit.
Alone.
Absorbing all I can.
Away from the world...
Away from my friends...
Away from life...
Away again.
I promise I care...
Even more so when I'm not there.
I care more than I care to admit.
I just can't find my cares right now...
Or how they're supposed to fit.