You crash. You burn.

Knock knock. Who is it? This one is for the books. I wonder what's greater, the amount of time we stay asleep, or the amount of time we stay awake? Amazing how someone can be such a fucked up individual that they release sorrow from the things done to them but then do them to others as well. No one man is greater than the next. We all have little maps within our tissues and organs displaying the people we will become. You always become the thing you hate the most. I had forgotten what panic felt like. It was me wanting to cry, me wanting to let it out, but being physically unable to do so because I have become so used to this feeling. So? I lost my breath. Panic attack into an asthma attack. Yeah, thanks for that. Bad habits will never actually go away. They just dwell in the back of your mind until you think its okay to let them out. Then you remember why you put them there in the first place. The drugs, the feelings. You usually lock them away. Strange to me how a heart can become such a cold hard callous over the time of it being beaten. This isn't as bad as it used to be. But that one little needle pushed into it hurts but only because its a reminder of what its become. Why am I always fighting? I'm always exhausted, yet for some reason I am unable to sleep. The brick walls I put up for other people to knock down I've realized I've been trying to knock them down for them and pull them in here. The warmth of the sheets in my bed are far better than the false warmth within your soul. You'll live your whole life being absolutely nothing but a let down. You fucking know it too. The cold crept into my feet and the sun started rising. I almost liked it. It made my toes just as numb as the inside of me. Half of me wants to feel it, but the other half just isn't ready. In fact, it was humorous. I try so hard to allow people to use me to make themselves happy. Maybe that's it. The worth of each individual shouldn't be measured by how much you need them. They should be worth as much as any other. You are the epitome of every single thought of angst, loneliness, and heartbreak ever put to paper, screen, melody, or brush. And you will feel it vicariously through the way you are to other people. Every single prick or pain I've ever felt bubbled up to the surface...only to fizzle away. I am in search of somebody to lay beside until the demons go away. I want to sit in the middle of my floor with paint and a canvas with music playing and just keep going until I pass out from lack of energy or creativity. How many times will I drive past my father's grave whilst the rain makes love to my windshield? How many times will I refuse human kindness merely so I can be the one everyone loves to hate? Don't even blink. You kiss every known scar on her body as if your lips were magic and could take the pain of the past away. She can feel your breath on the tips of her hair filling her with warmth and fear. Every single word you've ever let fall off your tongue is a representation of the misfortune that is... you. We all know what will happen. In the back of our minds, we fear and are anxious about the ending that we know is coming. Yet, we choose to ignore it until it presents itself to us but, we are only half blinded by the sting that consumes us. Think about it tomorrow. Never really coming to terms with the hurt of yesterday. Pretending and wishing it all away until one drunken night of open doors reminds you of every single pinch that makes you the human you have become. The youth of your formal self is most likely disgusted of the lack of ambition you've manifested. We always become the thing we hate most. what we swore we would never become. We give ourselves ideals of the perfect goal, the perfect body, the perfect mindset when in actuality each and every single one of us are falling apart at the seams on the inside and the worse we feel, the bigger we smile. Someone always has it better, someone always has it worse, but our pain, our suffering, our madness is the only thing that is completely all our own. His sorrow was uninformed. The tears and rips inside our souls are always going to be there. Some people just bring them out more than others. Our faces are nothing more than paper mâché starting to crack and break from all the years of use. All I want is for someone to notice the little things I do. Someone other than my inner inhibitions. The faint smell of cigarettes on your clothes, the taste of bubble gum on your mouth, the sound of the hums you sing to yourself quietly in kitchen in the morning. They all deserve to go without being unnoticed. That feeling you get when a stranger's scent reminds you of someone you once cared for but you can't seem to place your finger on whom. You remember random memories of your childhood- having no idea that this is where you were going to end up...still having not a clue of where you're going. Shake off the feeling of abandonment, betrayal, being unwanted. Put them away for another day. Never facing the nuances of the shades of feelings towards someone else. Its always the same feeling of yearning, it just misshapes itself every time you allow yourself to want another human being. Tricking you in all its cunning and clever idiosyncratic methods. What is it exactly? It isn't quite love, but its more than attraction. Its feeling the resonance deep down within your bone marrow of passionately stretching an arm out for someone to grab you. Yank you. Pull you. Jerk you. inwards towards them. and them curling you to their body, squeezing you with all their might as if you were drowning underwater and their very touch is oxygen to your water filled lungs. No one has ever tried to save you. Nobody has ever taken the time to noticed you needed saving. They sit their heavy body blatantly on your chest, wiggling around, weighing you down, cutting off your circulation, then when they get off? They leave. My mind is filled with lackadaisical efforts that have turned into absurd jokes. You are a fucking joke. My fingers cramp from stretching them toward you. I can feel you spitting on me inside your mind. Hope you know it. You are the epitome of everything you've never wanted to be. Sometimes, its worth it. Do you feel like its worth it?

delirium.

I am so fucking lost. Floating around like a speck of dust. What am I even doing anymore? It's time to leave. It's time to branch out onto another limb because sitting on this one has no more meaning. But where does this direction take me? What's out there? I fell in love with your voice. It took me back to when I was in grade school and I was within the halls of the music room. You raised all the hairs on my body and I felt my heart beating faster, all through your vocals pouring from my speakers. My pulse matched your rhythm. And I don't even know you. I've never wanted to know a stranger so badly before. I want to collect all my thoughts and paint them. I want to hear all the sounds and write them. I want to see all the colors and turn them into song. I want to be on stage and I want to twist my own intestines for you to see because that is the only way I can ever make myself feel alive. I am the epitome of angst, hatred, sorrow, loneliness and joy. All in one. I do is sleep, cry and make excuses for why I can't do anything. I want to call you at 3 AM. Hear your voice, ask what you're doing in your room I can only imagine. I imagine what your laughter sounds like. For now, I'll dream of living by the beach with skates on my feet and money in my bank. I'll laugh at everything I've been through. My hair will be so long, and I'll be tan and skinny. I'm so broken. I thought I was broken before, but I'm really broken now. Broken into fragments. like a mug shattered but too many pieces are missing. I close my eyes, hoping it will all go away, but it doesn't. I squeeze my eyes shut and ball up my fists. I make whimpers and push all my energy into absolutely nothing but air. I have no tales of love. No tales of addiction. No tales of therapy. Only tales of nostalgia. What a fucking waste. I'm not even sure what the point is, anymore. I dream and dream. I imagine tiny knocks on my window with you and a boom box. fucking classic. The air feels acoustic. My skin blushes as the wind slaps it. I want to put shoes on my feet and run until I am dead. Running from everything and absolutely nothing. Beyond this point of creative flow. Take me. Take all of me. Put me in your novels, your songs, your paintings. Anything to show the world what kind of fucking spirit I have, because none of you even know it. Nobody has taken the time to see it. I don't give up. This life will not knock me into the deep end. You got that? I want every piece of me to linger in your mind. The taste of my mouth, the smell of my hair. I want to be sentences and lines. I'm tired of chasing my issues with a false idea of what could be better. How much longer do we have before the word "youth" is no longer a reasonable excuse for the things we do? They've always called me a late bloomer. My head never stops pounding and my heart never stops yearning. The silence creeps in and is much louder than the trains or the fans in the next room. You all hide in your own insecurities. Place the blame on someone else because its easier to than to just accept the fact that maybe you're a terrible fucking human being. Broken bones can mend but broken hearts grow back crooked. You give me a sense of false hope and I know it is false, but it is exactly what I need. Don't tell me its false, I want to have something to hold on to. Something to take care of little by little every day. If I have something to look forward to, then I don't have to hide for so long. Have you yearned for something so hard that the second its taken away from you, you are too exhausted to care? Its like taking your time creating something into your perception of perfection. How easily it is for something to be taken away from you that was never yours in the first place. So many lost souls out there searching for their own existence in tangent with the pulse of the Earth we live on. Sometimes we dump out old memories to make room for the new ones, but there are moments when you remember the most insignificant of events occurring and the simple beauty of just that is enough to pacify our own screaming mind. Every single thing that keeps me breathing and moving is nothing more than a string of events attached to my existence. Why is it so much easier for every one else to find a place of comfort? I am only comfortable in my sleep. You once told me to wait for you. I have no choice. The fabrications I conjure from below my fingernails and from inside my brain folds are nothing more than an illusion for me to stay put and get going. Always keep going. There is probably something beyond us that is so incredible, so much better, that giving up would be worth it. But that is too easy. And I've seen what giving up can do to other people. You can all ignore me and pretend I don't exist but I will not do that to you. Even if you all deserve it. Strange how you can be uncomfortable but still within a comfort zone. The taste of your skin I can only imagine. Of all the things I imagine, that is my favorite. All of my favorite things nobody has cared to ask. No one is there. It's just me, my adrenaline filled pulse, my imagination, and my fucking spirit. Maybe that's all I'll need to conjure up a point of self worth. Maybe one day someone will ask me how I'm really doing. And I'll tell them how terrible it actually is. Its like being underwater and you keep kicking up to the surface, but you can only get one breath before you're pushed back under again. Everything is so hostile and negative. I'm always sad, but in a optimistic kind of way. I'm just waiting for someone to take the time to notice. I wanted that to be you. I'll imagine you singing me to sleep this time. I'll be able to fall asleep, then.