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 ^{(it's beta!)}

The highlight of my day was stealing a bottle of wine and sharing it with catherine on my bed. Drifting in and out of consciousness of whatever trendy film was on my TV. The highlight of my day of my week was stealing a fifth of whiskey from my uncle's liquor cabinet and sharing it with megan on my bed. Drifting in and out of consciousness of the old sitcoms and the kissing and kissing. The highlight of my day of my week of my month was buying a thirty pack of light beer and sharing most of it with fiona in her car. Drifting in and out of consciousness of whatever we were smoking and listening to oh so loudly. The highlight of my day of my week of my month of my life was stealing a bottle of rum and sharing it with no one on my bed. Drifting in and out of consciousness of my job of my studies of my fears: of my consciousness.

They look at flowers, at trees and see more than any man should (or at least they act as if they do), while I see it just as it is. "I guess you just don't have a poetic soul," I was told by a friend, who of course, wasn't much of a friend at all. Because a poetic soul is a soul so molded by it's society to believe it definitively exists, when in fact, it does not. So I don't have a goddamn poetic soul. A flower is a flower. A tree is a tree. A soul is a soul, and goddamn, do I have a real fucking soul.

A man can be treated with such enmity for so long that his existence can be worn and torn to nothing. Because death doesn't demand a lack of being, but more so a lack of feeling. Thus the difficulty of living is not living but struggling to not die.

Warriors die quick deaths and leave behind a cause and result attributed a slight to their name. Writers die long, painful deaths and leave behind notebooks and texts attributed completely to their name. But, oh, which is worse: Dying by a knife to the throat with nothing to your name (no glory, no medal). Or dying from a fire that burns inside of you for years, with everything to your name, but no desire for it.

"Take your anger out on someone else," Mother could never understand, but can any of them? She was referring to the rocks being thrown at me by the boys at school for my pale skin and quiet sincerity. But who could I take my anger out on? Not the boys from school, that's for sure. If I did that, I would surely never ever again be the victim.

Every time

it affects you

like you told yourself that it wouldn't.

Like you promised yourself so many times after it ended,

that you would stay strong, puff your chest out, and say, "fuck you,

you were no good to me. i did my best, i am a GOOD MAN."

Every single fucking goddamn time

you know that she has kissed another man

and you swore you were done and you swore it was over

and you swore and you swore and you fucking swore until your throat hurt

while your stomach just rolled and swayed and moved into all of the space left unoccupied

and all you could do was fucking sit there and take it like a goddamn man, take it like a goddamn man and stay alive

because you have to.

God fucking dammit,

you have to.

Out of pleasure comes words? What a preposterous idea? What a ridiculous proposition to be proposing to the poet sitting lonely at his desk in pain from his years of willing torment. But why not look and see all the beauty there is to see: passionflower shampoos and pumpkin spice lattes. Only these few things, very little in real value, show that you are letting in beauty and pushing out pools of hatred and guilt and the desire for pity. Art is too often associated with this, this awful pitiful pile of filth, that one too frequently forgets to tear down that wall and smile.

The human experience is complicated. Long, boring, and painful (although, it shouldn't be). Time passes slowly, but inevitably and only a few select moments are written and remembered, the rest tossed aside like the core of an apple, only occasionally appreciated for it's value. Twenty years is a day for some people, such as myself. It saddens me though, and regret sets in, for any time forgotten was time wasted, and can never be spent with the potential of pleasure and production that it once did.

Introverted      Extroverted Does it make any difference? It all ends up the same way:      Leaving you feeling   Lonely     Conflicted       Confused and         Tired.      More joyful and easy may be      Extroversion,      but emptiness is still the      final result. More quiet and saddening may be Introversion, but it feels more worthy despite still being empty. Loneliness has very little to do with how many people one surrounds oneself with. But more so correlating with how much      Fullness      and      Worth one attributes to oneself      and others. Conflict and Confusion are simply human truths, undeniable (although often denied through so many drinks consumed and smoke inhaled) and exponential when involved with Introversion and      Extroversion. And all of this Loneliness, Conflict, and Confusion makes one oh so Tired of being such an Introvert, of being such an      Extrovert that one must pull over and fill up their tank before breaking down on the side of the road and being completely stranded:   Lonely,     Conflicted, and       Confused.

If there were a God, I would ask him one thing: Why can't a night of discovery, a night of drinking, a night of delight, produce such wonders as a night of silent and sorrowful sitting? If there were a God, I would ask him one thing: Why must work be necessary? That which combats the most human of desires is the same thing that society and nature dictates must be done. If there weren't a God, I would not ask him a thing, because talking to air is silly (but who am I to judge, talking through a pencil to a lined sheet of paper). Instead, I think to myself about how I am actually glad that there is no God, because answers aren't definite. And when answers aren't defined, I am a balanced soul. For I am a man that cannot deal with fact, but must deal with idea to stay intact.

Wake up in a fitted bed with several blankets and decorative pillows. Take a shower with a fancy nozzle and wash your hair with colorfully scented conditioners. Shave your face and use aftershave, too, or apply your blush and eyeliner. Slip into name brand clothes with expensive price tags; don't forget perfume or cologne! Because I know that in thirty or forty years, you will wake up, cook breakfast, send your kids off to school, look at yourself in the mirror, and finally realize that there was no fucking point and you will become depressed, and I will be satisfied without shame, because you will begin making up for the years that you should be living now, just     like         me.

The worst part of depression is not depression, but the         EXPECTATION to continue like you're not. To be held up to the same standard as the joyful ones surrounding you.         NO SHAME, I am SAD and cannot produce for you. Without the ability to make yourself happy, why in the hell would anyone expect you to have any ability at all.

The ocean wakes with it's offerings, but with no soul to receive, the beach has found a stronger solace in valleys; deserted, you see. For all of the fish it can share, all of the moisture it can provide, are not enough for even the sky who has abandoned the ocean in it's lowest of tides. "The world needs me," it pleads to a place with no one with will to hear. "I need the world," it cries to itself, so quiet and so dear. So much to offer, the wasted potential fun, the ocean sits alone, the others with faithful companion.

Big words aren't of any importance when your pretension overrides your purpose and                          Bury you                          them. sound just like all the other goons writing day and night just so you can be called a writer.