I’m so hungover I don’t even know what I puked-but apparently this is it.

I feel the redundancy of my emotions wash over me as I stare at the keyboard with the same emotions that often plunge me into an abyss of swollen despair. And I’m so tired of having to write down different words each time for the same cycle of thoughts and heart breaches like changing the tires on the bicycle only to see the chain’s been lifted. So I ride on with no air in my tires and use metaphors hoping someone will read between the lines and try to find out what I’m blabbering about a between mid sips of pauses and faux pas. How can you say you understand what I mean when I don’t even say it properly. In fact some days I don’t even know what I’m saying.  I spew some idiomatic digression from a past mistake out of my system onto a blank page and it’s deep because I don’t even know what I wrote and neither do you. So am I a schizotypal raging lunatic with a pen to pretend that I’ve let out my hearts content when I just want a hug? or am I visionary who has said too much? My emotions must have sinned like Satan to be stuck in this cycle of rebirth where their rebirth is in the same tired form of endless metaphors. I want to stop…using humor as a selfish excuse to berate myself in front of a crowd that agrees with the despondency I hide behind myself. I want to stop.. breathing lies of purpose and actually wake up to the shining light of my true calling. Which my bran argues to be death. I want it to stop saying that.  I want to stop writing this useless thing of whatever genre of rants its falls into. That’s the only thing I seem to have control over.


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