The wind whipped and I became more calm.

The impending doom outside could not match the chronic doom within.

Three chimes of a bell signaling what?

Don’t let fear limit your ability to operate.

Not compatible with life.

Bickering over coffee filters.

Just kids being kids.

His booming voice, laced with hate spoke over me.

The lethargy can’t take over.

The weight will dissolve, it will descend.

And I will stop.

Red, casting a shadow on what was once black is no alternative.

Stop checking.

Stop.

Start writing. Start writing echoed and reverberated around in the empty cavern that was once filled with vinyl and shine. Cause and inspiration plummeted into a void uncharted and abandoned. The mind withered while the body took shape without purpose.

“You don’t deserve creativity.”

Creating lists of meaning, lists of things to strive for, lists that felt entirely impossible.

Looking back, the realization of immeasurability flooded the enigmatic mindset, the plague.

Like the kin, the artist fell from the path, let the evergreen wash over, let kindness become the overriding consumption. This is a family.

The time is now, alternatives no longer seem fit as viable options. Without yesterday, without tomorrow, only now exists. Cease the day, let the cliche envelope you. Change creeps forth quickly, and with solidarity.

Become consumed by something.

Sly and inappropriate, juggling futures, losing thrust, losing something lost years ago. Anger seeps out of every structure, coated with molasses. Constantly striving to find outlets.

Having to do something for myself is a lot harder than I thought.

Thrift me. My receipt flew away and landed in a puddle of Ralph.

In a constant mood to entertain: mask up, create the facade in mere seconds, then break it apart.

Mix and match auras to meet the needs of everyone but yourself. Your trust has been peeled away, layer by layer, chipped away piece by piece.

How much is left?

Apprehension will kill you.

Fell in love with the girl.

Everything is falling apart, but it all feels so right; everything is falling into the rights spaces.

No money, unfulfilled sickness, and yet the pinky stays true.

The dirty carpet and the sea of fingerprints has left me unphased.

The sweat inducing thumb of the man from across the sea has yet to shake me.

The throb that binds the columns together has caused each of the two globes to trick me, and yet, life still buzzes.

Everything is green. Everything I touch is green. The top is green and plummets into red.

Encased in natural bends and stretches, shrouded in future incantations, invocations, able now to tell the future.

Visions of the future come by way of odors wrought with devastations from the past. Learning to listen to guts, empty and sad, lonesome and stressed, are still viable.

There is no soul.

666 bands of silver restrict the blood and the ability to impress upon others the feeling of having any conceivable notion of anything or anyone.

Drifting through the faux, one with the drag and the longest con of all: everything is okay.

This odd sense of comfort, the want to wrap your shell in warm iron, illuminated by an inferno, to melt the sickly sweet candy coating other eyes transposed upon you.

They want to panic you into transforming your mind into theirs. They create doubt with their gazes, unwilling and arousing disapproval.

So confused that one begins to mix and match, starts to misconstrue the lines between lust and love, work and play, and not knowing where or how or when to get out.

Inspired to jump from the highest spire into the moonlit flood is…unexpected to say the least.

How?

Made it through to the other side. Pilgrim. Clark. The dark coals burn every ounce of progression, but this fire will not consume me, it is powerless.

All are the same. All are different. All have something to offer. I just want one. The one who bathes in the pale moonlight.

Ghosts in only the reflection taint the day and fill the night with joy.

Hold back who you are. You are too much. You are not enough.

Trapped in a world that I want to be apart of. Trapped in a world I don’t belong in.

Let go, don’t look back.

Deadpan without the cake face.

William S. Burroughs told me I have three weeks left after this next Wednesday.

The concern over crusty rubber in my mouth transferred to the broken rubber encasing the sweat, blood, and dried skin that I depend on to take the next step.

The water was two dollars, letting me know that 2016 has come for me swinging.

Maybe that’s what the black cat was there for, maybe it wasn’t the lack of lightning I strove for, but was unable to attain.

The old fashioned donuts weren’t the right choice, I should have chosen to be hypnotized.

The talking won’t stop, and the looks are grayer than I had once thought.

Unable to look at the smoke directly, the ash won’t leave my side and the veil is temporarily broken by the subway man asking me if I’m okay.

I can’t say what I want to say, so I say I’m okay. Is this wrong? Will I look back on this and laugh or wish that I was back to where I am?

Remind me of what to do. Slit my throat as I walk past the coffee clad man with the hopes of being hit by a car, into the building that has tried for so long to turn me into the person that I don’t want to be.

Walking with wet feet, children make the noises of birds that I don’t recognize. Pumpkin, go help your mother. I walk faster, scaring the ants into the crevices that they hold dear, I hope it isn’t her.

The men in orange can’t help me now. That’s the problem, it depends, with writing things that no one was there to see. Walking in, met with dried red greetings, I am hit with conversation that I don’t want to be apart of.

I can’t help but stare at the glowing screen wishing I was in the glowing bunks of anger, I can’t help but think of all the people I don’t want, wanting me to think it’s the other way around.

The silenced taps are halted by a red bar and the smacking and sighing and the grumble of the stomach I wish I didn’t have, and for what?

I can’t help but wish that lettuce would come out the nose holes of the ones I can’t handle, and I can’t stop because that would make this all real. I can’t look, I can’t worry, I can’t help you, I’m not stuck, I can’t stop.