Tag: Creative Writing

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I’ve got that summertime

I’ve got that summertime sadness in that I feel like I’m falling apart right now.

I’ve got that summertime sadness in that I am falling apart right now – there is no feel like, unless, of course, it’s all in my head.

There’s a good chance it’s all in my head.

The sky outside is on fire, and my mind inside is on fire. I think there’s a metaphor somewhere in here. I think, I think, I think.

Maybe that’s the solution.

Maybe that’s why I just bought and consumed a four shot bottle of Jack within ten minutes. Can’t have more than that in the apartment. Oh no no, no sir, no way, no how.

Have to forget. Have to be able to stop thinking. Have to stop it.

Am I am an alcoholic, and if I’m losing weight from eating better and working out more, why do I still have this beer belly? Oh, that’s why.

Better drink about it.

So that I don’t think about it.

And so now all of my writings have become ramblings I guess, huh.

Hemingway was a drunk, right?

To be clear, I don’t think I’m a drunk, nor do I believe drinking is the cause of my issues.

It’d be easy, if that was the case.

But it’s not. It’s not, it’s not, it’s not.

Oh my god, am I doing that annoying LinkedIn thing where every single new sentence is a new line?

I’ve earned myself a fifth shot.

To be clear, I know I’m not a drunk, and I don’t believe drinking is the cause of my issues: it’s more nefarious than that… I drink because I think because I want to control because I feel out of control because the things in my mind and the thoughts in my head never correlate to the person I am or reconcile with the person I wish I was and I get so obsessed with this overconolulted complex of OCD making plans even though I’m not OCD that’s not who I am and I’m struggling can’t you see but I don’t care enough to make anyone see, the “you” wasn’t directly meant at someone, not you or me, or maybe, I guess, you know, partially potentially me.

I’m 32, single, and definitely questioning.

Why I am single? Why am I here? How’d I get here? Do I like other things? No, I really don’t think so, but why else am I single? Why else am I here? Well –

I said “I don’t really don’t think so,” but again, that’s the issue: thinking.

Sixth shot.

“Why else am I single?” I’m not sure, all I know is I hate myself and I’m now too scared to talk to girls after being the “doesn’t call – or text back (let’s be real here, who calls anymore, nowadays)” douche in college, and so I no longer like to approach or perhaps ruin or poach a good evening, writing this it sounds like I’m seething, but I’m not, I wonder though if I’m believing.

Again, perhaps there’s things I’m not admitting about myself or to myself.

Or perhaps there’s skeletons in my closet so much that I wish I was someone else.

Things I regret in the past and don’t believe were the real me.

But what if they were? That’s the one thing that has me seething.

And self-loathing with no coping because I don’t deserve any reserve or reprieve because is it just me I am going to deceive?

No one knows the past but ourselves and the others in it, and who knows how the other remembers it, and do I remember incorrectly?

I honestly don’t think it could have ever been me.

And maybe it wasn’t, maybe I’m just remembering incorrectly.

Because I never realized it until years later, and they never said anything.

At this point, to them, I’m never saying anything.

And then to conflate and confound the issue, is that completely ancillary?

Is it because I could be of a different orientation than I previously thought, and that’s why I no longer try to quote unquote talk to the orientation that I’ve always thought?

Or is it because I have one thing I haven’t been liking about me (well, a lot of things), and that one event in the past, that they’ve never brought up, but its effect still has its last.

Cause I think about it now, and about it I’m not proud.

There’s so many, many things about which I’m not proud.

The self-hating leads to the over-drinking.

And when I’m out – no pun intended – when I’m out there’s so much over-drinking.

Which leads to more self-hate.

How’d I get here in the first place?

I was a good person, so I thought.

Am I a good person still? So I hope I am. I’d like to think, but I don’t know if I am.

I do good things, but are those because I am reflecting?

And to return to earlier, is this simply tangentially?

Do I wish I was someone different altogether completely? If you know what I mean?

I don’t know.

I really don’t know.

If this is the world, then this is what it is.

I hope, I pray, no one feels as fucked up as I do, and this is why I say I’ll never had kids.

At least biologically.

If I’m not happy with myself, then it’s time my bloodline dies with me.

But I’d love to have kids honestly.

And know I’d be a great parent.

And would love to take a kid out of a situation that’s shitty.

So adopt, don’t shop, as I jokingly say.

Then again, sometimes I wonder if I’ll be around another day.

So then no, at least for now, plus I have the whole issue of finding a partner for now.

And reconciling within myself why I haven’t done so yet at the age of 32.

Perhaps my insecurities all along were right: I’m a loser, who knows?

Oh yeah, all the people who picked on me growing up.

Why do I care about what they did or said? Honestly, now I don’t give a fuck.

But I worry their words and actions made a lasting impact on me, subconsciously.

And these are the things I gloss over in therapy.

I want to be in a relationship, I want to have kids, I want to love and be loved.

But I have a hard time finding love for myself, and I have a hard time envisioning a future where love for me finds someone else.

To atone for the past, sure, I donate and volunteer and am generally a good person.

But I know I could have been a better person than I was, and I hate half of who I was who is half of who I am.

So until I can figure that out and figure out what it takes to be a man (pun intended, fuck societal norms).

I’m just so lost.

And every summer as an adult it’s arisen.

As a kid, you look forward to the summer break, minus the summer reading, where you can spend so much time with your friends playing outside, playing inside, and even by yourself doing nothing.

As an adult, you feel the pressure to have the same fun and make the same plans and make the most out of it, even though you don’t have vacation, or you feel the melancholy of reflection now that you don’t have that time and now that you don’t feel fine during that one time in which you had the time.

Breathes out in exasperation.

The summertime sadness hits me so hard, it’s for real.

I thought for 2023 maybe this could be the one year I could steal.

Away from the sadness, but the sadness now has it.

The only way now I could steal is to not partake it.

But in order to do so, I’d have to stop partaking in all of it.

And that, I will not let myself do so, I will continue although I know “deep down” I want to quit BECAUSE deep down I don’t want to quit.

I’ll continue striving to be the person I’ve always wanted to be, always known I can be, every day.

The other pieces in life will settle as they come, in a way.

Because I know deep down, I am someone I can humbly be proud of, and make the world a better place.

I just need to remind myself to keep living, yesterday, today, and tomorrow, and every day.

And to improve on myself, no matter how big or small the improvement is each day.

And one day, as I try to make others happy, I’ll also understand how myself to be happy.

That way

That way’s away right now

But I can see it

No matter how far away

Every morning’s a struggle

Every evening’s a battle to convince to try another day

But I can see it

No matter how far away


At least that’s what I say… what I say today… who knows what I’ll say tomorrow… if I am around tomorrow.
…and after I quoted Lana, I’ll quote A Fire Inside, and say “Sing the Sorrow”

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Somewhat

…and it’s a microcosm that I don’t like what I’m doing and don’t know what I want to do and I’m scared for the future and regretful of the past.

But sometimes things work out. Sometimes it all works out. All the frustrations building up to it, if you stick with it, sometimes it works out. If you’re patient. If you’re positive. You won’t always be patient, and you won’t always positive. But on the average. Balance. Moderation. Balance moderation.

Sometimes you get what you wanted and realize it wasn’t what you needed.

Sometimes the converse.

Sometimes neither, but what’s worse?

Sometimes it turns out the chase was worth more.

Someone’s staring at me – or am I staring at them?

I don’t mean in the mirror, I mean in this coffee shop I find myself in.

Reflecting, reflecting, reflecting and then –

Listening to the conversations all around

It’s the same one I found myself in when I wrote my last post and a few times between then

I retreat to a similar, familiar topic when I have writer’s block I suppose

Easy to flock to, this type of prose

…and I guess it’s because things are going right at the moment, that I don’t know what exactly to write about. I somewhat do like what I’m doing and I somewhat do know what I want and I’m somewhat hopeful for the future and accepting of the past.

Sometimes somewhat is enough. Sometimes it somewhat works out. And sometimes that’s enough.

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Skeletons and Ghosts


and cringe titles

2:17am. It’s another night I can’t fall asleep. I just lie there, tired, thinking, thinking, thinking.

Or it’s 4:51am. I already fell asleep, actually at a reasonable time, and now I’m awake, lying here, thinking, thinking, thinking.

I hear the rattle of something outside my window. It’s been 1.5 years, and I’m still unsure what this object may be, and what may cause it to rattle. Check the Weather app, there’s no wind. It’s too early to be construction, too late to be the sounds of a night out.

Wake up.

It’s before my alarm. Am I dying? Have I died? Odd, it feels like I’ve died. This has happened twice now in the past year of my life: I’ve felt like I’ve died, I’ve woken up feeling like I’ve died.

I hear the noise of excitement outside my window. It’s early morning, and the city rises.

I hear the noise of excitement outside my window. It’s a weekend afternoon, and the courtyard hosts a party of voices.

I’ve heard these noises for 1.5 years, and I’m still nowhere closer to enlightenment since when I first moved here. Not that I believe a true enlightenment is attainable – something about how “success” means something different to every person – but I haven’t been able to find my enlightenment. Nor have I been able to define it.

So how do you achieve something you can’t describe? Well, I can describe it, I just can’t define it. I don’t know what the end goal is, or I do know what the end goal is, I just don’t know what it looks like. And if I don’t know what it looks like, I don’t know how to get there.

So how do you forge forward on the path in an open world map when you don’t know where the path leads? Is the search for enlightenment, the quest for the destination, part of it, part of enlightenment?

I feel like I’ve asked these questions before, for years of writing and creative posts and skeletons and ghosts and come no closer to an answer. I thought I’d be closer to answer by now. It worries me that I’m not closer to an answer by now. (Clearly, repetitivety is not key, but who can fault a person for wanting their writing to rhyme like poetry?)

I started writing this in the middle of the night when attempting to sleep.

Now I find myself in a trendy little coffee shop, like the one I wrote about on the home page of this site when I first started WPC in 2019… although to be fair, and potentially even worse, I believe I originally wrote it in 2018. So five years later now, not just four years later, and numerous writings, some that have been on point and some that has missed the mark, and I’m still asking the same questions from I first decided to start. (Like actually start, and not just thinking about it and think about it and put it off and put it off.)

The two two-person tables next to me, one on my left and one on my right, are both empty. Next to the left, a young man reading. Next to the right, a young woman reading. Across from me, well, directly across from me is an empty seat, and believe me, at 31 I am ever acutely aware of there being an empty seat; but across from me, behind the chair, the next table, another woman reading. A few people at the front of the shop, besides the kind baristas in the middle, and a group of three college students studying to the left of me, diagonally. On the opposite corner of them, an older woman with her coffee, an iPad, and headphones; only, she doesn’t seem to be using the iPad to scroll through social media or the internet, she seems to just be genuinely sitting there, listening to music. She seems so content and confident and completely immersed in the experience. Maybe this is the final destination: the search.

Maybe the final destination is realizing, acknowledging, understanding, and accepting that there is no final destination. The final destination is the search, and the enjoyment of all things, both good and bad, that come with it. And being able to find enjoyment in the little things, in everything.

Coincidental it would seem that Coldplay’s “Fix You” played when I was writing the ending. However, I should realize, acknowledge, understand, and accept that this is just the ending of this post, but there will be more words to write, and there will no ending until the final one that takes us all. To quote an athlete, “There is no such thing as perfect. There’s only the relentless pursuit of perfection.” Well, I can’t quite transcribe that to my view on enlightenment, but it’s close. I’ll try, “There is no such thing as enlightenment. So stop trying a pointless pursuit of it.” I’ll close by saying, it’s also good to not go in the exact opposite direction, so, keep that in mind (me, keep that in mind). Now can someone remind me why I named this piece “Skeleton and Ghosts” in the first place?

Disclaimer – Say Anything: It’s strange, I’m skinny when I’m standing, but I’m Buddha when I sit, and if I’m truly so enlightened, why’d I waste your time on it?

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All Altruism is True

“I’m useless alone.”

“We’re all useless alone. It’s a good thing you’re not alone.”

Did you know that apartments in New York City have horizontal windows, and the horizontal windows don’t open completely, maybe just a few inches?

All of them?

Mine does. Ask me how I know.


The fate follows the falls; she looks out her bedroom window, heavy rain soon

Another dreary day outside, is it night or is it noon

And inside, where the weather has no effect whether she feels high or low

In these four walls while drenched outside, there’s nowhere left to go


Did you know that apartments in New York City have horizontal windows, and the horizontal windows don’t open completely, maybe just a few inches?

All of them?

Mine does. Ask me how I know.


EEAAO spoke to me – it seems like it spoke to many who watched it. But there’s one scene in it that has bothered me since I first saw it: “We’re all useless alone.”

I’d like to think we aren’t. I’d like to think we all have the chance individually to be someone who can make the world a better place. Of course not everyone takes the opportunity to do so, but the point is the opportunity is there.

And each person has the right to do what they choose with their life, even if it is to make the world a worse place.

So, what am I going to choose? I ask myself, as I type myself, my soul, my self, still lost. But although lost on who I am and what I am doing here and what I am meant to do here and what to do to make the world a better place on large scale, I know I can accomplish this on a small one. I can daily strive, daily try to make someone’s day a little more bright. It may be dark outside, clouds blocking light, but I can still find the little ways to make the little things in life come to the forefront so the rest feels fine. It’s what I’d want someone to do for me, so I’ll do it for someone else, and in the process of trying to make someone else happy, maybe I’ll make myself…

Each person has the right to do what they choose with their life, to actively or passively make the world a better or worse place.

What are you going to choose?’

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Solemn Solace

Sometimes you have to accept the timeline and just be okay with the way things are. How you got here. How we got here. And where we go from here.

She said it with an unrequited coldness, her voice confident but unsure, unrelenting in her quest to convince herself. I could sense her change in temperament from who we used to be to who we are now. I could feel the temperature drop.

Outside, the air was still and quiet, eerie like the calm before a northeastern storm. It was a grey winter day, the kind where I put my faith in the sun, the kind where I knew if I could see a hint of brightness in the lightly dimmed sky, I could be happy. Faith and hope are not the same. One does not follow the other, and one like the state of leaves on trees in cold degrees remained.

Inside, she sat coolly across from me, half upright, half laidback, on the dark shaded, maroon tinted couch we shared for years as young lovers who didn’t yet know ourselves individually but loved ourselves collectively, and then for more years while we became who we are and while we grew apart. I saw her mind was made-up and she had resigned herself – ourselves – to this fate. It was the logical choice, but it was also rational to want to fight it. In the end, I decided it was not worth it: although she was having difficulty convincing herself it was over, I shared the same difficulty in convincing myself it wasn’t. Just one more thing we shared.

***The above is a snippet to revisit, to become part of a larger piece***

Those words reverberated through the room, through my head to spark dread for ages of all the things that couldn’t be said.

Sometimes you have to accept the timeline and just be okay with the way things are. How you got here. How we got here. And where we go from here.

Those words reverberated through the tomb, through my bed to dark threads, in ages soon enough we’ll all be dead.

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Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day

You’re 31, and this is your life, passing before your eyes
I guess it’s better than flashing before your eyes
You’re 31, the days are quicker, and you haven’t accomplished anything you wanted to accomplish by now
It’s not trending well
You’re 31, the years are shorter, and you’re not even sure what you wanted to accomplish by this age
So pass the bottle on back down to hell
Time will tell
It’s easier to forget time
When you find yourself at the bottom of a well
It’s not trending
It’s not trending well

You’re 31, and they don’t make songs about your age anymore
What used to be fun now seems like a chore
It used to be easier to run when you couldn’t face the fate

You find yourself believing it’s easier to stay nowadays, to drink and not think
You lost yourself
On your way to hell

But how can you be on your way when you’re already in it
And then you find yourself again but at the bottom of the well
You’ve forgotten who you are
But will time tell?

By waiting here, doing nothing, expecting you to find yourself
The only thing time will tell is that by living like this, you’ll never find yourself
Although can you ever really know whether you ever really knew yourself?

Time to get help
Help will tell
Time will tell
But right now it’s not trending well
Wrong now it’s not trending well
Maybe one day I can say, “Wrong now that it’s not trending well” because it is in fact trending well
Who am I kidding, though – myself?

If I know what I need to do, but I can’t do it
For whatever reason
If I know what I need to do, but I won’t do it
For whatever reason
Then for X amount more years I’ll just watch four seasons
Pass before my eyes
And one day when it all comes to pass one last time
A life full of nothing, unfulfilled will flash before my eyes
And that one last time, it will tell:
You practiced on earth so well to get yourself ready for hell

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Disappear Here

There are three states that matter.

The first one, it’s like a liquid – you’re always moving, constantly searching. For what? It doesn’t know. I don’t know. Searching for the next thing, I guess. Something.

The second, someone is running. Running from something. Escaping, and hoping to soon be dissipating. But as the gas fades and transparency forms, and there’s no sign of anything having once ever been there, you’re still there. You haven’t escaped. You haven’t escaped yet. And by the time you do, you’ll never be any the wiser.

The third and final – and equally the worst but maybe even the best – is contentment. You’re not moving. You’ve found it. You’re solid.

“So is this you now? You’re just going to be philosophical? I’m trying to have some fun.”

“We’re all trying to have some fun. But the sooner we can face that we’re in one of these three states, the sooner we can try to do something that matters.”

“Yeah, and what’s that? Go to a coffee shop and pretend to be sophisticated? Watch the cool, new movie that has a plotline that’s been repeated and regurgitated since mythology written hundreds upon thousands of years ago? Organize a spice rack? Look around. This is all there is. Either get with the program, enjoy it for a few years, or disappear. That’s all there is.”

“So now when did you get all philosophical? You really don’t think there’s anything more?”

“I know there isn’t anything more.”

“I believe there is. There’s got to be.”

“There’s not. Try to have some fun. Be a solid. Be content. With the fact that this is all there is. So: Have. Some. Fun.”

“You heard yourself, though, right? You’re talking about one the states that matter.”

“Nothing matters. Just disappear here. If you can’t admit it, you should just disappear here.”

“Disappear where?”

“Here.”

“Where is here?”

“I don’t know. It’s fucking right here. What do you mean?”

Voices weave and stream through my head. Be something good for the world. Be someone who makes the world a better place. Leave it better than when you entered it. Leave behind a legacy.

Disappear here.

Or be happy with a family, a good job, and a hobby or two.

Disappear here.

Or just party. Always. Constantly. Consistently. And say fuck it and anything and everything.

Disappear here.

Or go off the grid. For now, and forever. Until this life is over, and until you’ve disappeared here.

Where?

Here. There. Wherever. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Keep searching for what you’re supposed to be. Run from who you are. Or achieve enlightenment and be content – and apathetic and easy to forget.

Disappear here.

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The girl with brown hair

Her brown hair flowing
Glowing and growing closer to the side of my face
My cheek
Makes me weak
When I’m this close
But I’ll gain strength
To stay in her good grace
To stay within this space
With her hair pressing into my face
Her neck pressed up against my lips
Her smell, I can taste forever upon my kiss
Her lips
Her kiss
All innocence
And no ignorance
Nothing but good intentions and playfulness bliss
A wish
To remain forever just like this
To remember forever this soft skin and those full lips
To not just remember but to fully and always reenact this kiss
Oh, what I wouldn’t give
I’d gain strength to make mends if ever broken
Go through lengths to prove actions upon words spoken
Heartfelt words for the one who deserves them
Not me, I don’t deserve them, and I don’t deserve you
Is what I would’ve said until the day that I met you
But with you, I feel deserving, that’s what you do
And now this is what I’ll say until the day I can no longer talk, speak, or breathe
If I prayed, then I’d pray
To have you here sitting with me
And me sitting with you
Or standing, lying, and lay
Until the last of ours or til the end of days
The best possible outcome
Not to be with someone
But to be with the one
Who makes me weak in the stomach when her hair falls against my face
But makes me strong in the heart when her hand feels across my face
And her breath brushes against my cheek
And her heart beats against my chest
Yes, the best possible outcome
Is to be with this one
Whose lips I will always miss once I find them
A kiss to miss upon lips with bliss
A kiss with bliss upon lips to miss
If she’s here now, I’ve found them
Give me a kiss
So exquisite
Her mind is the only place I’d ever visit
Quietly comfortable in her embrace
In the embrace of her brown hair strewn across my face
There really is no better place
Than right here, right now
With our lips barely touching
Both quiet and tired but fully loving
And comfortably silent without pressure for any words to be said
It’s you, it’s me, hands and hair caressing each other’s head
And face, I’ll never forget the look on your face
When I said I wish we could stay like this day forever
And you said this day could not stay but we have plenty more ahead
And I pursed my lips to give you kisses upon your lips, your cheek, and your head
Because if this is all there is
If this is all life is
I lived the best one I swear
Because I fell in love with the girl with brown hair

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It’s a strange parallel

It’s a strange parallel, that at the same time you can’t conjure up a story to write about, you also can’t create a story to live about. Every time I try to put pen to paper, the ideas don’t come and the words are scrambled. Every time I try to do something new and exciting and adventurous in real life, I still think to myself, “Is this all there is?” It’s not like the latter is an unfamiliar feeling, but the former had previously always been my outlet. Experiencing both at the same is a first for me, and it’s not… well, it’s not fun.

Is this what depression really feels like? I’m not talking the sadness most people may feel on a periodic basis, nor am I talking the low-grade depression I’ve experienced on and off over the years. Is this what depression really feels like?

I’ve certainly experienced it worse now than ever before, but lately it seems I’ve come out of it, like I’ve come out of my analogous bed; however, the words still won’t come out of what I’m worried has become my idealess head.

Do we have time for creativity anymore? Make time for what’s important I guess. Is creativity just not important for me anymore?

No, I refute that. I refute that statement that it isn’t, although the statement is a question no one asked of me but me and no could answer for me but me.

I really just want to write short metaphorical stories again about the feelings I’m experiencing and what the world seems to be going through, through a hopefully unique and original lens and within the context of a philosophical psychology.

So that brings me here, to this point, this moment in time, where I’m explaining my absence in my writing, not to my totally very many readers – instead to myself.

I’d planned to write *these things*:

-different poems than the last three in this series; <better> poems
-two shorter stories, mixing in prose with poetry, one with more pose and one with more poetry
-two longer stories, one on the topic of disassociation, and delusion, viewing writings in a diary (Personalities on Different Days), and another on the subject of, well, also observing writings in a diary, journaling the timeline of a goal to find love within a year, and if not, on the eve of the new year, jumping from the roof of the building the individual got a job at, at the beginning of the year in order to execute the plan and perhaps execute themself on 34th and 5th (Empire State Essays, or more cringe-worthy, Dreams of Death / I clearly should be writing lyrics for a liquid metal band)

What I’d like to write is how life can be so simultaneously beautiful and ugly: how can life be so simultaneously beautiful and ugly? I’m constantly amazed by it. Half the day, I’m mumbling under my breath, swearing because of the selfish scenes I see, cursing the lack of empathy in the majority of opinions I hear. The other half, there’s pure astonishment for the world we’ve built. For the universe, the planet, and our species… for every little thing to occur exactly as it did for us to be here like we are today, if anything occurred differently, who’s to say I’d be writing this or then reading it on the internet. We might not be here, or we could be here but things could be much worse than they are (while noting they still stand to get better). There’s pain, but there’s beauty, humanity, comradery, [still some] empathy, love, and pleasure. It’s the small acts, the kind words, and simple gestures that say, “Hey, things are going to be okay. It isn’t always great, but we’re in this together, and we’ll make it through today.”

This is the world I’m witness to. And I couldn’t be happier to get the chance to observe it, even if I feel like an outsider at times, a background participant, and even though I lose the happiness for temporary, momentary lapses of it.

Sometimes it’s like I’m still driving through that dark tunnel: Slope revisited. Once I see sunlight – and green – I realize that I may be out of the tunnel but I might now find myself with a new struggle. It’s foliage I now see, with bits and pieces of blue skies overhead obstructed by bark and limbs. I’m not sure whether I’ll ever make it out of the forest: how many miles it stretches in any direction is anyone’s guess, and my only compass is the sun and knowing that when it sets, it sets in the west.

So I suppose I’ll just find the beauty in it all until then. I’ll look up at what seems like dead trees, and I’ll watch them grow the most stunningly colorful, wonderful leaves.

And one day, I know, when I leave, I’ll leave knowing I experienced the beautiful highs and the ugly lows, that I did the best and also sometimes the worst I could do, and as depressed as I got at times and thought about ending it all, I’m grateful I didn’t and thankful I got to be a part of this experiment – the most beautiful and ugly one that’s ever been invented: life.

30, 60, 90 years – however many it is, when I go, I’ll be glad to return to Earth to decompose and let it grow.

Because in the end, at least I got to bear witness to the show.

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Ocean noises to fall asleep to while on melatonin unable to sleep and begging just to be able to weep like the waves of the water that seeps

Everything coming at me at once

Once at me at coming everything

Every feeling, every emotion, every dream

Dream every, emotion every, feeling every

Every sound

Sound every

Every sight

Sight every

Every look

Look every

Every every very fight

Fight every every every

Every every every night

Night every every every

Everything coming at me at once

Once at me at coming everything

Every feeling, every emotion, every dream

Dream every, emotion every, feeling every

Every melody

Melody every

Every harmony

Harmony every

Soft keys

Keys soft

Playing in my head tonight

Playing in my head tonight

Soft sands

Sands soft

Soft shores

Shores soft

Soft keys

Keys soft

Playing in my head tonight

Playing in my head tonight

All I dream is the same dream

All I dream is the same dream

Under the seam is a dream is a dream

Under the seam is a dream is a dream

Simulation is what I mean

Mean I what is simulation

Taking seriously nothing

Nothing seriously taking

Can’t take seriously anything

Anything seriously take can’t

If you can’t take seriously everything

Everything seriously take can’t you if

Finding the needle in the haystack

Haystack the in needle the finding

When looking way back

Back way looking when

Through this free verse hack

Hack verse free this through

Letting all the slack

Slack the all letting

Seep into my life

Life my into seep

Seep into my seams

Seams my into seep

Tonight

Tonight

I’ll fight

Fight I’ll

The night

Night the

Goodnight

Goodnight

To the bright

Bright the to

Night

Night

Goodbye

Goodbye

To the

The to

To the

The to

Bye

Bye

Winter to spring to summer to fall overnight

Overnight fall to summer to spring to winter

SAD is the one thing I can only ever get right

Right get ever only can I thing one the is SAD

Get right

Right get

SAD is the only thing I can really feel tonight

Tonight feel really can I thing only the is SAD

To night

Night to

From me

Me from

Seeping into my life

Life my into seeping

Seeped into my seams

Seams my into seeped

Baba O’Riley build-up it seems

Seems it build-up Baba O’Riley

Her fingertips touch the inseams

Inseams the touch fingertips her

Just let me drown down and forget about it

It about forget and down drown me let just

Just let me escape reality even if just for a little bit

Bit little a for just if even reality escape me let just

These are my

My are these

Are my

My are

Suicidal lyrics?

Lyrics suicidal?

Would be gone if it wasn’t for them

Them for wasn’t it if gone be would

Either metaphysically or out of the country

Country the of out or metaphysically either

Actually

What?

I’m already gone metaphysically

Metaphysically gone already I’m

And out of this poetry

Poetry this of out and

All I dream is the same dream

When I can dream

When I can dream