19th

I need to breath. Slow down. Calm. Don’t get a head of myself. The tension can be too much to bear sometimes. I think about my future. The jobs. Long lists of jobs. The various websites.

 

I think of my job. I think of my coworkers. Do I want to be in their company? I don’t think so. Maybe I over estimate my worth? The very question makes my skin crawl.

 

The hours.

 

I walk into the room. He flexes. We have nothing in common, you and I. Nothing in common at all. I sip my coffee. His jaw is chiseled. He is tense. I resent him. Animal.

 

I need to slow. I give up. Nothing makes sense. Nothing. I have arrived at a dead end. I have arrived. I am working now. I work and I sit there like a fool. Toying away. I smile. I retort. I follow commands, like a dog, like a child. Happy and smiling, asking for more. Too stupid to reconize that this is no game.

 

What. I want to live somewhere where I can feel alive. Is this a city? Is this the country? Do I want to escape? What am I sick of? Myself? I need positive thoughts. I need the more positive thoughts. Only they will help me.

Belief.

 

I need to reconfigure my speeech too. I’m starting to grow tired of my language. The words I use need to be revamped. I am alone. I love being alone. I want someone to love. I want a family. Maybe.

 

I am a fool.

 

There is nothing worthwhile for me to say now. It’s all been said. I have nothing interesting to say. I am tired. Let myself feel alive.

 

No poetry from these lips.

 

I want to say “fuck youuu!” and take a bow. Take a deep bow, in front of the stage. I collect dust. My thoughts melt. Brittle edges.

 

I despise. Pity. Don’t plea.

 

I drive. I scramble.

 

Everyone at work takes their job so seriously. “This is the worst day ever!” They’ll say. I am puzzled. Is life really that pathetically boring where you have to create a bad day for yourself?

These people must live pathetic lives. Pathetic and uneventful. “This is the worst day ever!” They refer to the days they need to click a few extra boxes and print things out. What difference does it make? I just stare at them and smile gently in agreement. “Sure” I indicate, “it sounds real bad. I feel for you.” But inside I am blank. I have no idea what it’s like to consider a day “bad”.

No seriously.

I cannot remember the last time I had a bad day. I can’t even remember the last time I had a problem. Like, a normal problem. Most of my problems are inside me. They stay with me through the days. The rest is just life. Shit happens. Stuff blurs all around me. People are phased. I take note. Usually I don’t. Whenever I react, it’s usually out of custom. I’ve  found that people find me odd when I remain passive and indifferent in the face of conflict. It’s almost unnatural, like I don’t care. And the reality is, I don’t. The trivialities of life are lost on me. So I act like I care. Just like I act like I can relate to my coworker who is telling me how bad her day is. You were on vacation for five days. Yes, you have work to do. You’re not against any deadlines. You can finish it. It’s not that big of a problem. It’s just data. You sit in an air-conditioned office. You listen to Spotify. You have multiple monitors. You answer text messages. You can manage the work. You can manage some extra work. I promise.

I need to stop complaining. And stop judging. And stop criticizing. It’s not really that good. I just have this mentality that everything is bullshit. My student debt looms over head, its ominous tentacles restrain my efforts to build.

Words are stale. My mind is stale. I want to kill myself. Or do something that jolts my senses alive. I need to move. I hate my living situation. I’m tired of being somebody I don’t want to be. Who the hell is that. I don’t have shit figured out. I’m no closer than where I started, just a lot more confused. I have these bullshit degrees, and not a fucking clue what the fuck I just did with my life in the meantime.

What the hell is a job? A job. 8 to 530 every day. What the fuck did I sign up for?

Emerson, where are you? Teach me again. Where is love? Poetry, my mind, come.

I am dead.

Have died.

I tell you what you want to hear. And you eat it up. You’re a glutton. Too indulgent to take a breath and examine what it is your consuming. You hang on my lips, dangle on my tongue. I know nothing. Stop listening. Go your own way.

Too much. Too much noise. Soft. Whispers.

Hello love.

I vomit. Words spew. Sundered pieces of thought, fragmented feeling, dribble on.