Be, Be, Be (un)exciting.

Life is quite the bore sometimes.

Even now, nothing seems to be relevant enough to share; everything seems relevant enough to roll over and press between my fingers, squeezing out all the juices, studying what makes up this boring, lame, bland stuff. Anxiety's hammer has not hit me quite yet, but I know something of it or in its typical atmosphere will soon. I'm rather worried about being such a worrier. Can I spell? Is this correct? Do I bore? What else can I say?

But does that worry me, or do these questions scare the living hell out of me? (I'm sorry, I too, hate passages that ask a plethora of epiphany-esque questions [and I also hate work that is done with the intercepting paragraph--but I won't bother you with this now that I've used my personal maximum of two--all within one]). I cannot find pathways to challenge myself, as I never have, I certainly will not right now. There's nothing to impress, nothing to indulge, nothing to envelope my senses in. Maybe I'll go on a death-defying adventure and slay alleyway dragons and battle dirty haired gremlins. Or maybe I'll harness the forces of weather and embark on such adventures that books will be published on my escapades. Or maybe this will just be another sign of apathy--utter lack of motivation, shear misinterpretation of unimportant daydreams.

I hope I'm wrong. Yawn.

Slumber and Until You Wake, You Won't Remember.

What is it about that something missing that transforms us?

Like a forgotten song or an all too familiar voice. It's these things that make it hard to move on to the next step--to change or morph into these plastic aspirations that swirl around us. It's like that bit of epiphany that fizzles in your last sleeping gasps of slumber; the genius that breaks into china pieces the moment you wash the film off your face.

But when it hits you--bullets couldn't wound this magnificently.

I've meant to tell you, really, I have, but at times it feels unnecessary to supply you with such nonsense. My diminishing desire has been only of my notice and I cannot help the transformation. Writer's block is a goddamn bitch, in other words. But in lighter terms, so is emptiness and the void that the opposite sex is supposed to fill. I guess I've printed too much.

But maybe I haven't. Because, well, this world seems to be obsessed with hiding our true faces and a general constriction of the human emotion. If not emotions than invisible things--like time. If Earth was a wrestler, her finisher would be a devastating jugular slam. Grasping Mars by the throat and thrown down into the dark tint canvas. To not notice this trend is tremendous in both human bliss and ignorance. Schedules, calendars, digital clocks, buzzing alarm clocks, chimes at the quarter of the face, subway tickets, airport screens, and last goodbyes are too much. I suppose I should give up my own time too. Because no one seems to release theirs anymore. Why are we based on something that is invisible and blank? Is a second locked up in a glass case somewhere in Paris? Can I shake hands with the hour glass man, proceeding to ask him to go fuck himself? I guess it's a just a seasonal thing. I can't wait till Christmas gets here. I guess now only these goddamn minutes are in the way.

Cheers to fuzzy dreams and drunken aspirations.

Carved in Doors.

On my way to the floor
to my home this carpet
scribbled notes carved in doors
like someone had wanted

I couldn't figure it out
Couldn't figure it out

Found yourself on the ground
such a perfect view from here

On my way to digest
All this bitter manuscript
Scribbled words, counting mess
upon layers on your bed

Could you figure me out
Can you figure me out?

Find yourself on the ground
such a perfect view from here

Counting sheep as you speak
throwing tantrums through your drink
mellow froth, seething teeth
and your throat expanding grief

Couldn't figure you out
Couldn't figure you out
Find myself on the ground
such a perfect view here

Here it's here
Inside this old mess of
lover's, crooks and all it's intentions
Sell your face and bargain a jar
to place in place of your empty heart