A Novel Disease

Cliche: Reading a bad book

Is like a bad relationship.

At the end,

 You feel like you’ve poorly invested

And wasted time.
Each book, a contagion. Spreading

And affecting each person differently.

You say, “Don’t you see the symbolism?

Isn’t it fantastic?” And I do see.

But the sentiment is lackluster

And the conviction needs tempering.
A sincere sensation

Turns to a monochromatic abyss.
But how would you know 

Without the first read? 
Still, I wonder,

Not what book would I love to enjoy last,

But, instead, what book

Would I die without reading?

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Clouds

I’ve ceased smoking regularly.

I don’t feel the urge to anymore,

Except on certain occasions

When a mood strikes my fancy

Like how sulfur strikes a match.
I’m still anxious though.

I bite my nails until they’re gone

And then I gnaw my fingers.

As long as my mouth is fixated,

My nerves don’t seem so broken down.
I’ll surely die of a heart attack.

If I’ve quit too late: cancer.

Regardless, my chest constantly hurts

And I keep looking to the sky,

Wondering how many clouds I made.

Master

God’s Flesh,

A last breath,

An unexpected adoration;

All earned over countless millennia.

And here you are,

Mine to trust and behold.

But you don’t lead.

You won’t even speak,

Your touch is cold and weak.

I can feel December in your veins,

A haze in your hazel eyes.

How did you get here?

I didn’t even know I missed you,

But you knew better.

Thank you for showing me

That I’m a slave to this life.

If I were anything else

I’d be power hungry,

Irresponsible,

Apathetic.

By accepting the chains of my existence

I become the master of my reality.

Just a Story

“A Muse or a Mother,

A Whore or a Lover,

The bride that died

Mid morning in March.”

The advantage of vantage.

The second person story.

A friend of a friend

Of yours.

With Mind wondering, mind wandering,

Falling through gaps,

Looking for impossible relations

to possible personas.

You wait and you wade

through an ocean of notions

Until your mind and body rest

On a metaphorical shore.

But this story

is a story

And nothing more.

Wanting

I need you to want me.

Not as a Lover and not as my friend,

But as a reader, a student, a lost soul.

I need you, and that should be enough,

But it’s not.

A non-existent audience can be fickle,

Like your wants,

Like your needs.

You can want me,

But devotion is a murky water,

And your depth is always on trial.

I hope you break,

I entrust your life to ashes,

And one day I’ll find you,

I’ll find you wanting.

Thoughts #2

I was between sleeping and waking the other day, I had a serious debate as to whether I had killed someone. Or at least disposed of a body. I couldn’t remember killing anyone, but disposing of a corpse logically follows that, and that I could remember.  The anxiety of someone discovering the secret was overwhelming. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt more paranoid… And it wasn’t even real.

Do I not take life as seriously as I should? Is there a graded scale for such a thing? I feel as though everything’s easier with graphs and scales and equations.  Even if I don’t fully understand them, just seeing things represented thusly makes them feel simpler, more manageable, more knowable.

I hate pulling the nihilist card, but there’s so much I don’t know and so much I can’t know that it does seem overwhelming pointless to try and discover or try things.  But then I always grow tired of the monotony that accompanies not exploring my life and this world. And so I try new things for a bit, until I’m overwhelmed.

Maybe it’s my lack of focus. Which isn’t so much jumping from one thing to the next, it’s a constant step backwards to look at the whole of my existence and wondering what sort of person is this making me? What sort of person does this?  It’s the neutral answers that give me grief. “People do this, most people in fact, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to…” The things that aren’t inherently wanted or unwanted by the person I’ve become.

Sleep.