There go my chances of sleeping any further;

24 12 2013

It’s 2:53 am here.

And I can’t find sleep.

It’s funny because most of the time it’s because of restless thoughts, but tonight I don’t really have any. I just can’t find sleep.

And it’s far too late and I’m far too lazy to try and workout right now.

I know I have thoughts in my head, but they’re so beyond my reach my brain may as well be empty. I can’t turn them into writing at this point..Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep, my mind is trying to find it’s way back into writing.
Maybe it’s trying to give me an idea but I can’t listen at the moment because I’m concentrating on trying to pass out.

“That doesn’t even make sense you scum bag”

Hey, I’m trying here. It’s beautiful you know, writing. It’s an absolute beauty…it goes beyond expressing yourself.
It’s deterring losing your way in this world of letters, makes you kind of give up in a way. Even if no one reads your writings..Anyway. I’m over this romantic writing deal..HEY! maybe that’s it.
I’ve got new words to spit! and I’ll find a way to do write them…but I’ll find this energy in the morning.  These eyelids are getting heavy…Maybe that was the thought I needed to give me sleep?

“You need rest, I’m glad this romanticism is over though. Night Kid”


A closed story; Freestyle.

30 04 2012

Put your vice on the table so we can talk about what this has to do with you alive; you left before I could get my hands and my arms around all the little things that made you up. So much for luck, you blew all of your cards on one dumb play and now I’m sweeping your remains. Forget what’s owed, it never mattered at all.

I kid because I love; I’m worried, I’m worried on you. We wrote the book on ruining your friends, we wrote the book on skipping to the end, like when I get home and “I’m so tired baby, just roll over please, I’m so tired baby, roll over please, I’m so tired baby, roll over please; wash rinse repeat, You say these things until they’re canon.

Just throw up your hands and die, give up and learn how to cry, wash it down with the taste of sour defeat; Press it against me until I start to suffocate from the smell (It’s all right, it’s okay, just come home, come home)

We wrote the book on playing out, we wrote the book on closing out,

we wrote the book…

I’m eighteen; Spending my life in the passenger seat;

4 04 2012

I can’t stop thinking that inside something’s missing. Opportunities missed and chances blown but that’s just how it goes.

Everyone and everything, always in search for something . I’m not doing the best I can to escape this place I’m in, nor am I focused enough to make it more bearable.

I’m so used to worrying about when to bite my tongue, but as of late, I’ve nothing to say. I find myself making old songs new, and old again, and I’m the same; burned out on everything.

There’s no value, no shock factor, no hope, nothing to look forward to in my immediate memory, and worst of all.. theres no love, not here; ironic right? A romantic and no love.

There’s just another day, another few meals hardly worth digesting. I don’t pay attention to things, not the beautiful ones, and beauty doesn’t really mean anything to me anyway, because I’m not that way, and I’d rather never be.

I’m all pointless, but I’m sharp.