sticky veins, and i'm the blood

i feel like i'm 22. like my passion is exiting stage right leaving a downed head and an empty theater. but i'm not quitting. i'm determined to defend my craft. to stay on top to make my life something considerable. soemthing not exactly boring and obedient. like the force of blood bouncing through my soft veins i will push through every cavern and every space to feed life too that which, without this surge, is left for decay. I'll push life into every hollow void forcing it to flutter into activity. vibrate into a hum and maitain an existence that worth is inherent not just the goal

the things you'll never try to know

it's something i...can't...quite understand. your temprament your aggitation. your lies your exaggeration. your inability to calm to reconcile to even deal. sorrow is lonliness moving through the blood. physical. atmospheric. lonliness of the mind, of a belief, of a concept, of an understanding. lonliness of no one else quite having the same vision...at all. so rest on your side even when your awake. you give up what you've never known and forfeit your mind. and i'm walking away quietly in the hopes of a call of a reach of a symbol that you're even still breathing. that you can see any shred of this light

things will always change

change? you ever heard someone say that things always change...or that they are always changing? yeah it's not true. the word change suggests a state of definition that will be altered. But if things are always changing then this definition, this stable structure would never exist. In a world of constant alteration nothing exists as a whole to experience change. The word change refers to 2 seperate ideas: that something is, will, or has altered and that something is in existence of solid unchanging structure to be subjected to an alteration. I attack the second assumption of "change." No set and whole structure exists to experience alteration. Alteration exists constantly without unity. Alterations are spontaneous and with infinite connectivity. What we see as a whole structure is merely a set of constantly a differing movement. Change is our generic word that has become outside the true meaning of the constant "flux" of the world.

quick, quiant, come

as criplling as paining as frail as it is...i'm in, tossed. thrown hated painted sainted and overall extremely frustrated. at never knowing when why or how any of this will make a penny's worth of fucking sense. i just move through the sounds and save the smiles and hope my overwhelming sense of doom and pain won't seek out my precious hiding spaces. i can't shake my shadows and i know they're there. i won't forget them. they are me and they are now a part of you

just keeps burning

i'm putting up new walls. i can't think. my crativity is gone. vaporated and my memory too. and it keeps getting worse

this is dragging me down (but trust me, i'm fighting)

more papers. ideas and blunders and analysis. all bullshit that just isnt' good enough for the man in the chair. but why the fuck should i care? It's life. a life not hinged on school performance, work, or social status. it very well could be...if you let it. but i won't. so this cloud looms over me and wish not to gret it and when i do i wince when i rach for it. i wish it nothing more then a safe trip on to the next poor soul. inquire from m a thousand words and get nothing back but blank. i've nver put my heart into any assignment not cause i don't want to, but bcause i've never felt the want to. call it slacking, call it whatever trendy phrase you'd like but i get the picture and the message without ever sending mine. i'm sick of never sending mine. of mine being mixd up in direction and insufficiency. in subjectivness and expectation. how can my words be exactly what you want to see? i can't find the will to motivate myslf to abliterate my mind. to devoid myself only to accept this assignemnt. at the moment i am incapable.

if i could only type an adequate exhale. it's like a biological purge. the exit of the unwanted. pulled in, mixed up, and spit the fuck back out. like a shodowy memory or anything you think you know. like all the dreams you tried so hard to believe could come true your breath mocks your attempts to just hold on. to keep it together. blink, it's gone. but the compression seeps away slowly. So you're confused. was it ever really there? yes. no. it exist in consequences. you move from its push, and you push back