Deadlines and dedications

I know I play it off a lot, but everytime we have an 'event' it does stress me out a lot because I think of how many months this has been drawn out. Point is we HAVE to finish it. That may mean we can't drink around each other for awhile. idk.


I know. I don't know what it is. Why I keep fucking up, because that's all that's happening. Mistakes compounded for way too long. I want to talk about it, but don't know what else to say. I'm sorry doesn't even begin to cover it anymore and I'm beginning not to see a way out.

But I understand if you are going through a rough patch right now, and as a friend I'm here to lend an ear.

God, why are you so nice about me? I appreciate it. And I'm sorry I've been hurting you with this. I'm not as nice. In all honesty, I just feel as though I've been using you, using this, as some sort of comfort. Sick, right? But I can deal with that about myself, but I see now that it, that I am hurting you and that's the last thing I want.

I wouldn't have brought this up unless I was really worried about our friendship. But you don't need to say sorry anymore. It's just at that point now where it's either we end the friendship or we end the problem. I hate to have to say that.

But you're right. Didn't we say this? Were not those the tears? You're absolutely right.

Romance and Villiany

As much as I profess to be unloved, to be unloveable, I find myself drawn, attracted, in-in love with you. All these generations of needless professions. I cannot survive as so many hopeless romantics have. I have not the will, the strength, the endurance to live without your lips being the last on mine. Your tongue the last I taste. Your heartbeat the last I hear. I cannot bear it, to live without you. Without you as my own.
And so I go on, alone, not yours and yet never my own. I stagger on in solitude toward some empty colony of unwanted souls. You, my uncompleted masterpiece, along my side in thought only. Never in life.

Goddesses and Others

I find myself coming to the realization that I do not believe in love. And without that, what else is left?

I find my self lovable, I simply do not believe in the love our generation is so set on. Something glamerous and commercial where even the fights are heightened and extravagant. Something that makes even the most hated aspects of someone shiny and bright and tolerable. A Hollywood sort of love. There will always be something you cannot tolerate, cannot forgive. It is niave to think that your vision of love will erase that. It wont and you're being foolish.

I want to write my memoirs if only because there is so much I want to say and no proper outlet for it. I can't deny that I live vicariously through the fictional characters that I create. The shadiest and darkest of which only see the dim light of reality through this partcular outlet.

There's a strong woman with a decent story in there somewhere. There has to be. It isn't me, but I cling to the hope that it is someone I can model myself after.

I sink like a porous stone, slow and full, like the discovery of some hesitant new species.

What is it about pain that inspires creation?
What suffering must our gods have faced to shed
such life-bearing tears?
Madness surely provokes Art.
And so,
with glowing rod of personal torture
pressing into my Temples,
blood speaks
and makes
volumes of the times of men.
Thru insanity,
elevation,
before the End.