from grandpa’s bed, he’s still dead.

i’m not sure what i’m doing anymore

am i writing poetry? what is that? but a stream of words that somehow connect i’m lacking form, or is that the style? what’s the package suppose to look like?

words run together in characters and emotions some i use often to capture this explosion, a gallery of thoughts spewed on the page resting easily now their out of this grey matter cage. is poetry just thoughts? i do that all day incessantly. think. even the inane can create a cacophony of images that swirl above me keeping my scowl staked perfectly to my face to ward off the fucking alternate universes and different space that people use to erase their short comings and fucked up decisions that land them on soil without a damn thing coming up. that’ll happen, you’ll be pushing. do i need to write words and themes from the past to make sure the dedication to language will last. a cheesy rockabilly band in a smokeless dim lit dungeon with swaying drunks trying to find rhythm to another era- they’re doing their part, never let it die. people don’t want to dig, their fingers get dirty diving deeper for developed window sills to reach up and pull for a better view. all i continue to want to do is say fuck you and you and you. their are millions of tickets written and somehow, somewhere someone will want to hear my voice and give a shit to want to come back? nope. yes? i need to undress? oh, dress it up. friends will visit to make sure i’m sane, family could care less, they either don’t want to know, think they know or check in to confirm the personality they’ve created is underwater. i can’t change. won’t change. single story bullshit clouding their ability to meet someone new who’ll be honest.

is this a journal entry now? dear journal, i’m tired and sick of false stories falling from people’s mouth to magnify reality and feel relevant. i’m disappointed in a lot of people lately, guessing that means myself. i’m not sure why though?

who needs a journal. i’ll just tag you when we smile and stick my hand through your limp squished no opinion having back in your sleep to kill off this harvest of destroyed potential we reap. a crop needs to be turned over whether used or not, rotate and plot a new path to laugh at the splash of blood through night owls coming to feed on this frenzy of lost thoughts that somehow i need.

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