Bona fide

Rain at the window rapping tapping incessant alliterate slapping Rats in the septic Scurrying, hurrying Fecal fun lack of sun Ticks and tocks, aging clocks A house of nerves painful feels Lost literature scrolls, scribbles Sumarian murmurs old, very old The mind milks books, lactic separation The words fall freely Separation anxiety Time on a wait Your fate, an hour late Kiss me slowly, don't separate

All these fucking people are just the same iteration leading to a slot, among slots, stacked, in a row and waiting, blinking, trying to be unique, by being just as basic and boring and stupid as their last mould. What are you trying to achieve? People are fucking brands now, stitched from a bunch of fucking shit Because we're all suffering our slotted pain alone, but in rows and columns together, all so unique, all of us so over it, all of us skinny trashy druggy Satan loving knife holding fucks drooling over each other What kind of fucking game do you think this is, huh? Wake up!

Sunlight pours out of you, in the most measured, understanding, maternal, disciplined and affectionate way. I’m so lucky to know you, much less call you my dear friend. I tip my hat to you every day, envious and celebratory of your antics and mannerisms. You’d be great at everything you hesitate at, you would excel and bury the competition. Your greatest flaw isn’t your low self esteem, but the way you cling to the things that have been said to you, holding them tight and true, yet they are mere counterfeits and charlatans to keep you from your full potential and are signs of a deeper insecurity that has nothing to do with you. It is sad to know this, but it is tragic to see it manifest and it hurts me deeply to see you devalued and misunderstood. It is a scar of which the pain never ceases. But when you smile, the sunlight, hope, happiness and authenticity it unleashes is practically incomprehensible and joy-inducing. I cannot describe the feelings I have for you, but I want someone to know that they exist in a very real way, whether they can be quantified or not they are there, perhaps invisible, but influential and significant. I’ll always be your friend, confidant, and maybe, one day, lover. I’ll be there for you in whatever capacity you need me to be. 

Maybe if I just fall asleep, the swelling will cease, the pain will ebb, and the fears will be swallowed. But alas, pain. Pain in light, pain in dark. Pain is life, pain is your existence. Swallow, or die.

I’m so restless and uncomfortable all the time, goddamnit 

WHEN DOES MY LIFE GET BETTER I CANTLVE LIKE THISMUCH LONGER WE ARE QUICKLY APPROACHINGA FORK IN THE ROAD

If only words could encompass the magnitude of pain, that I carry with me, the holds of injustice, the swelling and leavening I endure, my world falls against me, in anger. When the pain is so sharp and sudden, 100 feet high, a deafening enormity, vomiting is indecision, your body crumples, you cry for some reason, but all effort is lost to the whims of your pain, you have no control of what you do, only self-preservation is what you seek, the roads to travel on, to get to that place, are saturated in an impermeable acid fog, mist, corrosive and choking. You curse the gods you refuse to believe in, and you sit in silence, the cold around you becomes worse, the darkness ahead of you is impatient and loud. The cycle of pain, proves itself, reaffirms itself, holds steady. Nothing relives this pain, nothing at all, nothing you can do will save you from it. Nothing you can do will do anything for you. You can’t do anything at all. Suffering is entropy, suffering is the ground zero, the gravitational pull, the mass of the universe. I’m a selfish person, a bastard. To want what I want, I want to survive. Survival and happiness are so apart from one another, but I speak of them as though they are the same, I want them to be desperately, and as I drink myself to dilution, i numb away some of the present, what will be of my future, as I stroke gently the bars of my cell, if only they were skin, of a lover, if only they were the legs of the one I care about. If only, if only, but they aren’t, have never been. I’ve done nothing wrong, but I’ll suffer all of the consequences. I’ll rot, into eternity, a corpse, a semblance of what was, of the curiosity, the capacity, the colorful soul I once was. How close I was, how much effort, how much sincerity, how much legitimacy I put forth, is washed away in AN INSTANCE, left with nothing, drowning.