I’m breaking
down
and I’ve
got so
little time
to
do it

I talk about writing and write so much because aside from music, it’s the only thing giving me peace and reason and purpose. Everyone is looking for answers but I don’t have them and I’m not the answer, but I feel like if I could see the face of God, I’d be better, healed—absolved. I feel like a bastard and like I’m pushing a Ponzi scheme every time someone comes to me for guidance and I push them to the “right” path when I’m just as lost as they are. And it makes me feel like shit every time someone wants to look up to me, or when people call me strong or brave or amazing or want to tell me how “great” I am. And then, the next moment, I’m fine, until the next tide of emotion comes again.

I’m just a person who’s had a lot of time to think—a flawed and fucked-up person.

But now that I’m scrubbing
toilets on my hands & knees,
with four degrees,
I realize that one escape route
leads to another

We had scar-tissue
romance and ours was
a relationship of saying
goodbye—every time
we fought, every time
we fucked, and every time
we called it quits, before
picking up our knives
again

I’ve looked at so
much porn that
every woman I meet
looks vaguely
familiar

I suppose I’ve come a long way
from: being drunk enough to drive;
tired enough to replace sleep with
pills; irresponsible enough with
money to steal for it; and dumb enough
to ruin perfectly normal relationships;
but smart enough to know the difference—
that every lifestyle change is just
a new prison