but then these days come(.) and.
and he doesn't come on and he doesn't come on and he doesn't come on
of his own volition and
and someone would take from me, but not say hello to me or acknowledge i'm a person
and i'm so tired of being casually, daily insulted in tiny miniscule and therefore allthemore needling ways; every time it passes i feel about to be sick, literally dizzy,ill
and i hate these tears and i hate feeling this way and knowing it's my fault and not knowing what i can do to be better, scared i secretly found/believe this really is just the way i am and that there's something inherently wrong with that way
and in the shower how much i hate 99.99 percent of all contemporary wellreceived possiblypublished poetry and how i don't see the diamond in there but i know there must be many because people, smart people say so they say ooh and aah and wellestablished places want to be graced with the work's presence and when it isn't that it's girls in their bedrooms being superhip and passing around crosscountry their zines and i remember that, i remember 1994 diy adam and gluesticks factsheet 5 and cyclist rebellions, richard linklater and grainy text but then why did it feel different then?. than today, then today. and my today's headach and passing by, sigh letting go silently and they frolic about and i sit there roped to death choking on my own con.restraint said on my face 'it's ok it's ok'. pastures i bled around about on. a bout on. silently so they weren't paying attention. as they should astheyshould. but nothing i've lived counts for much except to me. which i keep telling myself, that's okay, that's okay, and it is i just. i can't seem to stop myself from alwayshopingstill there might be a person who understandscomprehends idon'tknowwhat and i KNOW it's my fault i swear i know from the sinking feeling evenings i came home from school and it suddenly hit me, four months too late: oh you should have say hello back but i couldn't even see back then i swear it and (tears) i was in a total blizzard a fog i wish this didn't sound like an EXCUSE i don't mean it like that; i just. don't. understand myself even, i don't know why i "brush people off," as it emerges surfaceworldwise, appearancewise. and i fucking feel like the only person in the universe still hung up about how much gets lost between intent and translated appearing act; i wish i could make what i meant (or didn't mean) more clear and they always say i'm manipulative or they give up and they should and they have every right to and every agency for it but still there's the inner tube i'm locked in and the tiny voice welled up dammed up inside so faraway you mistake it for for for but it's it's it's 'don't leave me' and it's pathetic. THESE TEARS ARE NOT PICTURESQUE THEY ARE TEARS they are what being sad meant inside for me they don't serve well as photographs or representations of ANYTHING BUT TEARS and mine at that gritty and unwordlike though for some GODDAMN REASON i try through this medium some days, like now. fucking pointless. useless but i'm still me and i was still here, i was still here. i keep "being" here, even after you walk away. i don't know why i thought to tell you, inform you, thought i should let you know for some reason.i don't know.
everyone does it better than me. and it's just something i got used to. but then some days.
of his own volition and
and someone would take from me, but not say hello to me or acknowledge i'm a person
and i'm so tired of being casually, daily insulted in tiny miniscule and therefore allthemore needling ways; every time it passes i feel about to be sick, literally dizzy,ill
and i hate these tears and i hate feeling this way and knowing it's my fault and not knowing what i can do to be better, scared i secretly found/believe this really is just the way i am and that there's something inherently wrong with that way
and in the shower how much i hate 99.99 percent of all contemporary wellreceived possiblypublished poetry and how i don't see the diamond in there but i know there must be many because people, smart people say so they say ooh and aah and wellestablished places want to be graced with the work's presence and when it isn't that it's girls in their bedrooms being superhip and passing around crosscountry their zines and i remember that, i remember 1994 diy adam and gluesticks factsheet 5 and cyclist rebellions, richard linklater and grainy text but then why did it feel different then?. than today, then today. and my today's headach and passing by, sigh letting go silently and they frolic about and i sit there roped to death choking on my own con.restraint said on my face 'it's ok it's ok'. pastures i bled around about on. a bout on. silently so they weren't paying attention. as they should astheyshould. but nothing i've lived counts for much except to me. which i keep telling myself, that's okay, that's okay, and it is i just. i can't seem to stop myself from alwayshopingstill there might be a person who understandscomprehends idon'tknowwhat and i KNOW it's my fault i swear i know from the sinking feeling evenings i came home from school and it suddenly hit me, four months too late: oh you should have say hello back but i couldn't even see back then i swear it and (tears) i was in a total blizzard a fog i wish this didn't sound like an EXCUSE i don't mean it like that; i just. don't. understand myself even, i don't know why i "brush people off," as it emerges surfaceworldwise, appearancewise. and i fucking feel like the only person in the universe still hung up about how much gets lost between intent and translated appearing act; i wish i could make what i meant (or didn't mean) more clear and they always say i'm manipulative or they give up and they should and they have every right to and every agency for it but still there's the inner tube i'm locked in and the tiny voice welled up dammed up inside so faraway you mistake it for for for but it's it's it's 'don't leave me' and it's pathetic. THESE TEARS ARE NOT PICTURESQUE THEY ARE TEARS they are what being sad meant inside for me they don't serve well as photographs or representations of ANYTHING BUT TEARS and mine at that gritty and unwordlike though for some GODDAMN REASON i try through this medium some days, like now. fucking pointless. useless but i'm still me and i was still here, i was still here. i keep "being" here, even after you walk away. i don't know why i thought to tell you, inform you, thought i should let you know for some reason.i don't know.
everyone does it better than me. and it's just something i got used to. but then some days.