This is Untitled Because I'm Tired and I Can't Think and Things Hurt Too Much Right Now

I want to write so desperately, but nothing comes out sounding good.  Not even remotely appealing.  I’ve never bothered with any literary devices.  Never given a thought to formal patterning, hyperbole, sensory detail.  I don’t make how I write a science, and I hardly ever edit, it’s just whatever sounds good.



For the last great while, and this is something that is giving me a really hard time, nothing has come out right.  I set out to get something on paper or to curl around my keyboard and type, and I do, but I’m not close to satisfied with what I’m producing.  The words…I don’t know, man.  They don’t fit together correctly.  The sentences don’t flow.  Nothing is consistent or palatable.  I say the words out loud and they fumble around my mouth and my ears can’t make sense of any of it.  I get frustrated and I want to scream or cry or cut something.  Instead, I bottle it up.  That’s what I’ve always done, and the writing, that silent purging, has nearly always taken care of the feelings.  Feelings get to be a problem when you strive for numbness.  Mostly now, when I get upset, I just shutdown.  No thoughts, no feelings.  White silence in my head and in my bones and under my tongue.  Other times I write it out, write ’til I feel empty.  Or I used to.  Bleeding ink isn’t doing the trick for me anymore.  Maybe I’ve lost it.

I’ve tried to pinpoint the cause of my inability to write, so I can fix it, but I’ve found too many things wrong and I can’t fix them all.  Let's be real, I've never been good at making things better.

It’s too loud or it’s too quiet and I can't concentrate either way; it’s too bright or it’s too dark and it doesn't matter because my migraine is killing me; I’m too tired or I’m too awake and coffee's to blame for both; I’m too drunk or I’m too sober and I find neither exciting; I’m too down or I’m too happy and I don't like feeling things so there's the answer on that. 

You’re too dead and I’m too alive. 

Too much too late not enough.  Not enough time alone, not enough time spent with others, not enough time wasted, not enough time utilized, not enough time-

Nope.  Never enough time.

-too much grass, too much concrete, too much wind, too much smog, too much in the past and not enough in the future and when I think about the future and what I’m supposed to do the rest of my life my head starts to hurt and my throat tightens up and I get angry and bitter because the future doesn’t fucking matter because you’re not in it anymore.

So that’s the brunt of my problem.  I get angry and pissed off and feel like I’ll absolutely kill something if I sit and stare at a white page another five seconds.  Cool off, go do whatever. 

But it’s been the same fucking thing every goddamn day. 

I should be over it by now.  I am over it.  So why isn’t everything falling into place and getting back to normal?  Why can’t I write you out of my life?  I’m sick of ghosts.