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. . .
I don’t feel like doing anything. . .
And yet here I am, writing again. . .
Punctured thoughts gushing redness of frustration and disgust,
Black rivers flowing and intoxicating the remaining blemished white of reality,
Stuck in this brain, 
Wracking desperately for order and purpose,
I want to be perfect,
And yet the concept of perfection in certain viewpoints is downright sickening,
Puking out flaws. . .
Diseased in the mind. . .
Stretching out in exhaustion. . .
Not wanting to feel the numbness of nothingness, 
And yet not wanting to face the day. . .
I am angry at my life. . .
Scared of what’s coming—of what’s not coming,
I damn my aching mentality into the dark depths of arbitrary emotion. . .
No one gives a sh*t. . .
So who cares if it overflows? 
Asphyxiating my very existence, 
Hope springing to mind for s p l i t moments, 
Then fleeing like a damned jackrabbit in heat,
Wanting its companion,
Playing hard to get—becoming hard to get,
I hate. . .
I love. . .
All in one.
The emptiness is almost welcoming, 
But the sun refuses to shine there in that strange pleasure. . .
I feel the earth below me as splintered pictures wisp around me,
The days I’ll never miss,
The days I have come to wish were my present,
And those days that will never leave me the hell alone. . .
I think we all feel it,
Justin different ways. . .
The rubber bands on her braces snapping. . .
Saliva squirting out and splashing me in the face. . .
Is there a reason my stomach wants to melt and fold over?
Webs keeping them intact,
So intricate—yet delicate
Her eyes popping out of her head, 
Violence surging in her like a mad dog, 
Drooling and snapping its folded-skinned jaw,
Tightened buds blooming blasphemy,
Forces, vile forces spurting out in cuss words. . .
Like it’s just a regular day. . .
I’m staring at them all. . .
I am crowded and so sacredly alone here. . .
I sense madness, 
But that’s just another defense mechanism I have formulated in the imagination,
If I am mad,
WE ALL ARE. . .
I was never there to begin with. . .
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