bre a k

how do i keep holding onto the desire to watch it grow when i have been defined as the wrong path?
as wrong?
there were two leaves stuck in the car door. i felt them pull away from the tree. when i opened the door to get out, they fell. i placed them on the dashboard. it is not my car.

feel. something. break. i feel break. push something out and it becomes break. crush. destroy. any desire, of all - i need broken.

step 2. step one is pure reaction without definition, it must be followed by composure [in a way],
so put it back together oh it made a glass bottle i knew that before i threw it at the concrete why do i need to reconstruct things when i knew what they were before they broke?
because it is part of the process.

step 3. fuck the process because your anger has overcome all other reasonable sensations.

step 4. listen

step. it's a baby! a tiny tiny bloodied dependent thing, yeah she's smart and says some cool things but man you should live a little first hey? burdens are for the stable and bored.

step step step and jump. the last defense mechanism you had for this sort of bloodboil was smashy, or slicey, pain and whatever comes up between the lines
what now, hey? you will have to sweep it up this time because it's your house. the lines are more noticeable with a second set of eyes/hands. but does it even make a difference? haven't you told yourself about, oh say, 10-15 times that it is all gushing outta your earholes now? you know it must be, i mean, if you can see your own eyes looking dead... pretty sure that's a sign hey...

c'mon, c'mon i mean just a little bit won't hurt. well it will, but that's the idea, i mean really it's not like you do it all the time, c'monnnnnn i wanna see some blood i wanna push faces into broken glass i wanna

well i know it's shit, but the shit it tastes so good.

this is what i could see. foretold you so. would think it is good when its not and we would not be there i would not be here and you would not let the anger go and when you get the next chance it's a swift BLAM to the forehead and you're seeing bulletholes for days. until some psuedo-resolution is found as an excuse to fuck, psuedo-peace is made so we can continue our psuedo-lives. in what? in happiness? in joy and in love? in sickness or sorrow or anger no no no that's just silly, expecting someone to know what is going on if you don't tell them.

yes. it is. and i am silly, sometimes, because my emotions can get the better of me. but you are silly too. you just think you are the way and the light. and you end up looking like a shitty comedian who doesn't know what irony means, and the down spot is too harsh and bright when you're dressed down in your clown clothes with only crickets for comment. it's sad. everyone feels sorry for the guy. well keep on fucking around and saying the same old jokes, man, because i am so close to done here.

i keep trying. but i will stop. you can only convince yourself it's okay for so long. the veil thins. the veins thicken. the jaw clenches, and dark and break and eyes and blood

so. exhausted. enough, oh lord that's enough.