I've had enough

We used to spend the morning, dull and joking. The warmth of your friendship made the dryness evaporate. Those days still heavy with last nights sleep, we'd sit at fast food booths and I'd watch you eat your snack. It's a mystery about what we used to talk about, but we did it for hours. You taught me what it meant to be human.

It's difficult to maintain a friendship. I enjoy the never ending party in the faces of strangers. It's so easy. These types of words are easy to write amidst loneliness, and I'm paying for not curing his all those years ago. Sit in your chair and don't bother me. Life is easier from above.

Life is so difficult as a sleepyhead. It becomes this battle of willpower. I don't want to be a sleepyhead anymore. Crisp air and the people are going somewhere. But where? What is being done? There's no plan for me. There's nothing in store for me. I want to text you but I stress you out. Loneliness is when you speak no one is listening. Life becomes this battle of willpower. I tasted the sweet of company and I can't go without anymore.

Focus. Self sabotage can be condensed into this idea that you don't deserve it, you deserve it too much. Focus. I want you to succeed. Focus. It's in your hand if you follow the plan. But there's no plan. If you can't go forwards backwards left right up or down where do you go? Thanks for the new ideas. But I'm still sleepy in the morning after I couldn't relax last night.

I act out of emotion. You don't understand. Baby, stop torturing yourself. Life is easy if you follow the plan. It should be easy. It should flow naturally. Just take a crumb of effort and apply yourself, even for a moment. It's there in your hand. I write like a song with an extended tune. Unfocused and wild. I'm so tired of the nothing that is my life but there's no one I can turn to. Stop hurting me with your intensity. Life would be so different if I went to that party. Life hasn't changed and I keep talking to myself. I want to text you but I hurt you with my intensity. Baby, I'm grateful you're still laughing.

I want to apply a crumb of effort but the burn of burnout still stings and I don't want to invite it in again. Where's the steady pace? Where's the rhythm? I listen to saxophone and it's not possible for the mind to disappear at night. Can I stream of consciousness the whole day? The sting of boredom burns and I don't want to invite it in again. I'm a live wire today, my circadian rhythm has not been deduced.

I watch the girls stream themselves to their parents on the train this morning. I want to cling like they do but my mother is still sleeping. I want to cling to anything but there's nothing. The rope of my willpower burns my hands but it's nothing. What do I strive for? I just want someone to understand. I read the beautiful words on the train today. The sun rings the words and they jangle pointedly. Baby, I want to cling to you but you're not ready.

I have a ball to squeeze but the mental ain't connected. I waver mentally and none of it is grounded. I spent a morning soothing myself that life is in my control, my nothing life is in control. I spent three years defocused and nothing to strive for. I'm ashamed of my maturity. I whip the words out and it's in my control.

Why am I impressed by this nothing life in front of me. I laugh at the comedians that live the same life as me. Baby, you're a comedian and you gave me something. I turned it into nothing. I turned it into shoes that walk into willpower morning sleepyhead life. With this life in front of me, I can nudge it into something.

My nothing life is driving me crazy. I've accomplished nothing. I have tiny loose threads that squeeze my throat and snap once pulled tight. It's like a bug that won't bite you. Bug, you're born to bite me. It's a record, an honest record of this morning. A defocused morning, mourning my school days. Poetry that knows it's poetry. Baby, when will you stop torturing yourself with ideals. You don't have to be ideal. You just have to show up.

When will I burst? These words are fissures of the nothingness. It soothes me to see the record. It's self indulgent and warm. Why am I so impressed by the metaphors? I read the introduction to a novel, impressed by its lucidity.

We have all these items manufactured by the something. We trade and buy the items and this gives us reason to plan for the future. I just want to be understood. I'M ALIENATED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I want to achieve something with you and if I don't I'll die

Look at the space between objects. Look at the liberal education you desire. I throw down my notes and curl my feet underneath me, in the musty desk. What do I need to achieve to be accepted by the world? I wanted blue but became gold in the haze of mental illness. So, I'll be responsible. I'll throw down my notes and focus my wavering eyes on the page, of the stiff engineering, of the existence that I was not creative enough to escape.

There's not much to do these days except study. When will I be allowed to achieve something? When will I be allowed to prove myself? Why do I put my existence into your hands? When will I feel confident to pull something out of the nothing? I sit here and days become years. I forget last month's diatribe. I crush my habits into something rhythmic and easy. I pull myself high above and jump to conclusions.

Where's the romance? I've never tasted that. My career is all that I know. Friendship is all i know. This weak feeling begets consistency. Gentle feeling begets a future. I'm afraid to text him again because he feels like he failed and he's sad for so long about it. He lives in his head. I want to pull him out of his head but I'm worried I'll fail the surgery.

You wrote a story about comfort in studying. It produced a girl who was weak with people. Comfort in the intelligence, weak in the willpower. I come to my desk and give myself a liberal education. The shoes... the shoes...