my doing

she thought i could handle it
but she was wrong
i couldn't deal
with being left
we'll start this off with a raz reference, i guess

now we'll provide some space






because she goes well with the void now
feng shui is a bitch
and i'm curled up in her corner
on pharmaceutical sleep


i never know what to do
when i get paranoid
i don't have mantras
love to, love you
i love you
and that's alright
i came out of a mountain pass in a video game
left part of my brain on the apartment porch
i don't quite believe what i'm told about blacking out
but i wish i was back on the beach
i wish i could have kept the good vibes
those vibes that justify love
i don't know how to act
in such situations
i'm not a lover
but i'm a lover of love



i could hang on to those souvenirs i bought
sell them, whatever
i'm not interested in maximizing meaning through open-ended metaphors
i just didn't want to plainly mention
the american cigarettes
cause plainly mentioning things
brings unmentioned assumptions, in me, in you
and plainly mentioning things
also brings unwanted realities
like the stupid things i do
to satisfy stupid transient voids
like those I don't want to be apart of
and i'm not that important
and it's not that important
just a fragment, of me being upset tonight
and interpreting things
in a downward spiral i might term a feedback loop
one of those things

i have no friends when i'm this deep in the void
no one knows what to do, they can't help me
need expanded
to undefinable parameters

not sure why i'm writing this
or maybe i know and don't want to say
what i should do is shut the fuck up
and wait for my mood to improve
but i don't know how to improve it
so writing has become one in a series
of desperate measures
this is desperate measure number eight
the same number as art bell's experiment
the one that failed to heal mckenna's brain cancer