I’m a little bit broken
Or a whole lot of it, I really don’t know

Anymore
The room is a mess and the imagination really hasn’t been working like it used to do, of late – people say that I’m lost and that that needs to be okay too

I’ve suffered a long time, suffered til losing a large part of my better self

People shall never understand a behemoth yet blasphemous part played by problematic plagiarism, the writer’s hidden handbook crept meandering and transfixed within – worrying and written wickedly into unruly rule by over-enthused creative inclination, this bare-naked individual abated and imbalanced by anxious breath

All of him in or none of him

Twenty-three years endlessly enduring, endlessly missing – rock and a hard placed juxtaposition

My belly has gone all grumbly and rumbly and rotten inside because I don’t like to eat anything and any of it anymore

These early a.m. pills seem to have saved the brave far too late – danced with a rip-torn, faraway fate only to let it be
Hand-in-hand fantasised, lethargically enhanced til enabled by paralysed persuasion

Adhere to me, please…
I’ve been spitting rhyme one-of-a-kind

Am I the living, seething cliché which reels forever entangled and tilted at 360 degrees

On wheels, above all else renders itself deceptively insane?

The visual fails at releasing its realisation, realising its tantalised release – its final visualisation, so close but for being imprisoned by the ego of dread

A heart carries with it a posthumous, permittedly non-sequential Art
I suppose you might say I’ve given up on this life because it never did me any favours, none whatsoever at all

I brush my teeth some days soon, not most days when I throw a little blob of white, red, and blue toothpaste at it and rinse before even using my fingers – closest I’ll come to touching the colours of the French flag
Plus, I have my own tower to climb right now

Yeah, I’m lost, a little bit and a whole lot and no-one ever comes to see me – my very own tourist invites himself to this uncomfortable life

My mother used to come visit but that stopped quicksoon as she died
And my father might come the odd time too but when he went away he took his thoughts of me away with him

I have nothing to offer this world but sometimes I pretend to smile and it tries to remind me of what it used to be like – all nice and warm and fuzzy inside

I haven’t laughed in God knows how long…

No more, of course
Now I sit here picking at my fingernails and cry alot when I can’t be bothered to cook myself some food

I’m scared, petrified and altogether a sad guy with no friends but for my goldfish and my goldfish, I think, will be dying soon – freedom from it’s window-pained gloom

He looks more bored than me even

How’s about another cup of lukewarm coffee to keep me from keeling over? Where ever is that spoon though!?

Ah, yes, another cigarette… and, again, I wonder what it is to feel real

I stir the spoon into the coffee and milk and upsetting sugar cradled by cream and it recalls the school-bell’s jingle-jangle way back when

It all made sense of itself
I guess the sugar has to mean maths class for me – a heart-stopper

And I’m running on empty holding onto this pen, I gone and went and upset the question’s equation again

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