my room's a mess, antiques things scattered about, suitcases lamps and chairs. all waiting being eaten away by time. down here it's cold and dark 'cept for one lonely light above my head. i have a fan turned on to undo the ambiance of this dreadful place, the only audible reminder im being torn down is the reverberations of the house above settling. wires hang from all around. plugged unplugged a cacophony of orange brown white tentacles. i scratch at the wounds on my arms and shudder with queer delight. each scab peeling away getting stuck between my bitten fingernails. some blood pours out, i don't care. boredom is the worst horror of them all, a silent catastrophe i have to face each and every night. a bad dream, like, sitting-on-the-toilet-the-whole-dream bad. i could pick up a book, by a dead man, by a mean pretending to be dead, and alive one. drowning my sorrows in each one's mythos, but only to realize they are near the same as mine. the cold outside is reaching in and i can not turn away. turned so extremely neutral i just sit and continue, nothing. mold is growing, i feel as if it's growing in me too. the air shutes down the throat like warm fuzzy
razors.

YOU move on

i hurt and hurt and cry and bleed. all on my own, just to live. here my own self destruction proves i exist, my earms bleed, tears flow like fountains, i am pathetic, and at this low
low point i still feel trapped and lost. i want to explode friend but there's nowhere to go but my own dreams. ancient and primative things i conquer there blood semen hair its all i crave there, and im at the point considering it all out, only to the self, only the self desrves this, who am i? who am i? who the fuck am i and what am i to
do. you thinkj nyou know me and you probably do but do i? im just a mess. i want to live, i want happiness hate, hate not directed towards this evil slob of self but to normal
things.
tears flow and all i can do is bleed.

decided to make my own death potion

contains three packets of dried lemonade stuff, water, some concentrate oj (frozen) goopy sugar water yeast and love and care should be ready in a two weeks or less.

something soon i coming. maybe i'll start after the next dream.

i'm kinda held back here. No job no money no car. Escape is limited guys, i just spend the day wanderin': the house, the block, the cove, the park and my mind. Winter sun warm but air and wind freezing. I'm still caged, maybe always will be. I want to spend the week in a city, any one but i would need shelter these days. Zombie life draggin along, whatevs. I read i write and draw images within my mind. when i dream i dream glorious movies, things i want to emulate with the pen paper and computer. i type these worlds along, sentences growing, evolving though. when nothing happens i just gotta make it up.

truant in nature.

anxiety quells within the chest, a lump of mucus waiting, itching to be expelled in some horrid fashion. another night. another sleep and waking dream to hate or dread. a cold night with wind howling. dragging up snow and sand. tackling the house, and that object shudders. i along with it waiting, itching- wishing for a drug, up or down, pacing back and forth. i hold it all in, in some weird agony. ii try to ignore. i really do. try to ignore. fuck. it's scratching at me, begging to be let in. or out. dual and vague, a paranoid thought, feeling, whatever. it's here. it's coming. it's going. fuck, whatever. every tick the house makes lasts an hour. swallows me up. visions i cannot name, ineffable, redundant and ancient. no. primal, angry disturbed. shambling night fuck. it's myself in my own hubris, ignorance, knowledge and shame. pounding in my skull. wailing on the door like a tiny brute, screwing his way into the aching wood of mind. the fuck do i do? the fuck did i do? how do i go about fixing it? or do i just ignore the whole fucking it-thing? how can i. aching, aching, aching.

what does this hold what am i holding?

this is out on the flat, west texas. i look up and feel weightless, endless, endless everything. all the continuous life, death, and dragging on. i need to do something so i put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard and i write on. i can't describe the simplicity out here, it's not good it's not bad, it's just existing. for no reason but god people struggle on, my own family blinding themselves. drama i thought i was done with after i got kicked out of job corps filled our lives the past two months. I came looking for family, and now on leaving i feel even further away from that sense or want or need of that silly idea. or have i realized i should make my own family? i don't know anymore. i just see endless, endless flat: a plateau of mediocrity. i've loved the people i've met, my family, the idea speaks comfort but i was only able to find a force more self-destructive than my own self. so what do i do now? now that i've left that flatness? like i've left. i'm still here in texas, dallas, but somehow we're not staying. one more day i tell myself in this child's bed... i guess i'll find out sooner or later.

i don't feel what i know
what do i do now?
lost in this melting snow

i was apparently given something.
never had never lost it
can't sink a missing ship.

as roads lay before me:
can't we take both?
mind aches with indecision.

not a blog essentially

what does this hold for me? this life this site this "blog"? do i spew information about the world or of my own? suffer not dear reader, it's the fuck ever i want. i type here, tired, half drunk and aching. hello world.