Vomit Vacinity

My life consists mainly of making notes that never quite get fully paid attention to again. I pride myself on being able to see details. The little unused unseen underground parts. I like to find ingenious uses for things. I am very smart with a dollar. I feel like I have trained myself to be a calloused business owner, constantly in a bubble between who I can connect with and why. I feel there is always a space there, thickly fogged with respect and wonder some days. I feel miscalculated for who I am, for I never try to seem above any in nature. In fact, it is the exact opposite. I feel akin to so many people, but trust is hard to install. Is it wrong to think a reboot can be found among relocation?

My roots are typically short, I never keep things for very long. I am a temporary tempered person, a long term equation is usually rare and noteworthy. Even "things" don't stay for very long. Things must be new unless they are purposely old. And in the timeliest of moments, must be exact. My flaws of placement and compulsion idealize control and relaxation. The release placebos empowerment. A feeling from within of ultimate happiness, if not for a few moments if you stay still enough.

It's hard to agree with other people's choices. That's why they're called "other people's choices" in the first place.

Friends are hard, because you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. Especially when you know a fix. Most of the time, speaking your mind doesn't help. Think of a million like-you-minded people, uncertain about other people and thinking the same as you. They form similar fears, insecurities, social norms; therefore, you are alone. 

I can't tell you how many times I've met people I know I would get along great with. But too bad for me, I'm pretty insecure when it comes to my true feelings and it's probably the same on their end. Connections are hard to make. It's hard to find someone that just doesn't mind you being you around them.

I have met very few people in my life that I feel no stress around, that make me feel good when I talk to them, and be around them. They are all different and wonderful, and it makes me hungry to make more connections like it-- but I fear it will take time aplenty. 

Growing up is hard, you lose all of your friends and start on the journey to making new ones, all while trying to take care of yourself and adapting to annoying adult life.

There's a half finished nude painting of me you started out of the 26 pieces, and from this point it could end up being someone else. Lines are bare enough to bare any bone. I wouldn't mind that. I don't want a piece of me for just any eye to see. My body is mine and to those I choose to share it. You found old photos of me from that day at the lake, where I got naked for Amanda. Pulled out of the closet, under other escapes.  It is fine to use your imagination to fill a void.

Shake, shake, shake. Toss and turn. Sweltering, swollen. Lights and headache. Sand. Bulging eye, waiting for dawn.

My insomnia and curse for words never knows what time of day it becomes. My mind flips all around endless possibilities, awaiting each one with a tinge and a tongue waiting to say I told you so. Always smarter, always peeling, shaking, burrowing. Grand adulthood. Endless lists and lesions. 

Awaiting something or another always, ay?

I am finally falling apart inside and out. Knees know the walls, always upside down in position for you. I need books, books, tell me how to live, leave me for dead. I can't know if I'm actually a good person. No one near to tell the truth.

If journals were backwards, everything in real life would be so much more understood. No nonsense. Everyone is happy because everything is on the outside. No one has to worry about what the other person is thinking. And then we go home and don't write in a journal. Because we never would have said anything else, it'd be all already said.

Sometimes when I stare at people's faces I try to figure out what's going on. You can never tell. Faces can lie, sometimes. Most the time, though, I like to believe everything inside comes out eventually. Even in a glimmer or small second. A pinch of the face for a millisecond before the fake one. I know you're in there, somewhere.

Green - Yellow - Red - whichever color the button, it still radiates to me when I feel this abyss. The trigger, the power button, what you like to call nothing. How delightful renewal sounds.

When the net catches nothing it's hard to continue the job. It's mixed up masochism, whenever you allow to gate to open. It's the same thing as self-stabbing. You take a shower and realize the self deprecating actions, yet, you cannot move. You're stuck frozen, playing thoughts over and over until they become lethal, poisonous. You find yourself leaning over a bowl of rice krispies hoping with your eyes closed they would become bombs.

As I sit alongside my life, I can finally see nothing in my eyes. It's like all has been removed and thus forward, but I cannot bring myself to even flinch.

It is just so? I'm a person always lacking -- on the day I don't take the little blue pill.

Uncertain exchanges are the marrow in me. When I stare in the mirror I only see sticky eyes. Always a person waiting for someone else to make a move. You'd think the doctor'd learn. Rubbing everything away, try.

Crustacean eyelids get you nowhere, just a foot above dead. Constantly marked up to a machine, scanning rooms for a pulse of energy. It's a cowboy cutscene with nothing but a whistle lingering, a flicking candle deciding the rest.

Do my past friends revel in this? The fact I am the only one to dissect someone but myself. I write songs that end with the same word the started.