corduroy

I'm so fucking tired of this shit.

So fucking tired of everything.

Of everyone being so fucking predictable. Of ending up in this tiny fucking box every single time without nothing in it so every thought just bounces right back.

Fucking tired of sitting here, pouring out my guts on to a fucking empty table, and there isn't even an audience anymore.

So fucking tired of the fucking lies. The fucking lies, each and every time. The false hope, the false promises.

So fucking tired of predicting failure, expecting it around every turn.

So fucking tired of it being ironic in that way, that I embrace it so openly.

As fucking cold as it is, as many chills it sends down my fucking spine.

So fucking tired of being in the same exact spot I was so long ago.

So fucking tired of being placed in the same exact position.

So fucking tired of chasing a made up dream.

FUCK.

What I would do to have the luxury to burn out, and not have to fade away.

But everyday is the same.

I stay awake because I'm afraid of falling asleep.

I'm afraid of falling asleep because I don't want to look forward to another cold day.

I'm not looking forward to another cold day, because it feels like it's been winter forever.

Just another leaf being blown through the fucking wind.

Just another non contributing nothing. Fucking worthless. Unable to hold on to even the sorry fuckers that still manage to stumble along somehow and end up in this miserable excuse of an existence.

Bang, bang, a few sparks here and there, a couple of loud noises, and then it's over. It falls apart, like it always does.

Guilty on account of setting out to build a card castle in a storm.

Of setting out to build false idols.

To only ending up in an extremely unsettling state.

Sick to the stomach, with the sour taste of the poison apple still in the mouth.

I'm already cut up and half dead 
I'll end up alone like I began.

Bang, bang, et cetera....

Recluse leads to loneliness.

Loneliness leads to depression.

Depression leads to anger.

Anger leads to self destruction.

The story of my life.

To turn mere mortals into Gods.

To watch it all come crashing down, like when the Titans got pissed off.

To realize there's nothing left after the wake. Just like each time. Same old trip it was back then.

To realize the small box that I decided to make my world.

It's an extremely claustrophobic feeling. Sickening to the stomach.

I'm always being told, I need to get out of my head.

But it's all I've ever had. It's kind of a fucked up relationship.

I do have a bunch of those under my belt.

"Dysfunctional." God, that word hurts. Like a shiny silver pin being pushed far into an eardrum.

Like a metal rod being pushed through my chest. I can see it gleaming red on the other side, it goes straight through the heart.

Fuck, do I hate shit right now.

Copy of a copy (of a,)

Bottle after bottle.

Can after can.

Bowl after bowl.

Person after person.

Conversation after conversation.

Cigarette after cigarette.

Day after day.

Night after night.

It all stays the same.

Nothing seems to change.

I keep on pushing through.

Sunshine is promised at the end.

It's always fleeting. Always scarce. Feels good for a minute.

Then it's cigarette after cigarette, person after person.

It's the same, each time. Nothing fabulous. Never better than the last.

Or is it? It's supposed to be, it's advertised to be. But is it?

Thought after thought.