Daydreamer

My   eyes are glossed and I can't wake up.

And something inside of me   understands the alcoholic in you.

The need to drink pastthese thoughts. 

They aren't even solid thoughts.

The need to drink past these feelings. 

I'm sorry for sleepwalking into your reality. 

And my eyes were matted shut and my arms strewn in front of me.

Just lik  e the fucking movies. 

And I can remember      when I thought I was living. 

My body twitching. My breathing heavy, but steady. 

I can feel the warmth of the sunbeams licking at my pale skin. But I know I'm asleep.

But one night   someone told me that everything seemed so important when it was dark.

But I'm sitting here. In the dark. Face agleam with        soft light from the monitor.

I'm still nothing. Nothing  but  a  puffy  eyed  zombie  gnawing  at  my  cheeks. Put in a sick trance by  the   words    that I thought might be important to you. 

    And there are gaps in my thoughts,, amounts of time that don't exist because my   brain  was to busy  to tend to    me. It's like I' m weaving a web so carefully but I  always  fall    through the gaps. and fall. and fall. and fall. Until I'm trapped  in someone else's web where  they tie me  up and feast on my blood. But I'm asleep and think it's a dream. And I'm asleep so it is a dream. And in my dreams, you're a black widow. And in my reality, you're my black widow.

But I never wanted to be important. And I never wanted to be noticed.

And now I'm not. 

But you understand that because my fingers are laced in yours; my fingers are grabbing at the last link to humanity that I have. But the clock is ticking and I merely have weeks before you ascend. I merely have weeks before I descend. 

And I'll keep sleepwalking in the deepest slumber with no chance of waking.

A walking comatose. 

And I'll laugh, but I                      

                                                                        won't feel it. 

And I'll cry, but I won't feel it.

Because the monsters will own me like they own you. 

But I'll let them because they pull my string like a doll and I say what I was programmed to. 

And they pull your string and you say what you're programmed to.

And do you always say what you're told to?

Are you always so polite? 

It's for show because I know otherwise;

I painted my self portrait on  my face for you and you never noticed. 

I think about it             . And if phases me.

Who cares if you're the Emperor of the Universe if your thrown sits in a black hole?

And I don't want to put the suit on.
I don't want to look fancy for all of this.
My knees are shaking from weakness and my brain is pounding from all the haze.

But I'm sad. So, so very sad. My head is heavy and my heart is heavy. Because I have no future. I mean, I'll always have a future, but I'll never dream of a future with anyone. I'll never have cute words to exchange. Because, for me, life's all business. And I can never want.
I keep telling myself I'm not going to cry. And my eyelashes lick up the tears that threaten to fall. But every other part of me cries. All of my muscles are in spasms, and the stitch stays in my side.
I can't breathe. Even now. Just short choppy spews followed by a shaky gasp.

It's the end of everything and there's nothing I can do about iiiiittt. And everyone else gets a new beginning. And everyone else is talking it out. I used to be so sickeningly optimistic. But now it's not even pessimism. It's nothing. And that scares me. That I feel nothing.



Void.

                             Empty.





                                                                  Nothing.





But man, when I feel, do I feel it all. I feel the nails being driven through my bones and the hands all ripping out my hair. And my head pounds. And my head pounds. And my head pounds. And I feel the fluid. And it's makes my neck stiff. And my it's making my neck stiff. And the thought of food makes me heave. And the smell of food disgusts me.

And everything I do is to punish me, not to make me a better person. But I don't make a scene out of it. I quietly torture myself because I can't stop. And it's sick. Especially when I scratchatmybrainwithmyclaws. And it screams, but I'm so satisfied.



I'm fragile. Mostly because of me.

                                                                             But when someone else stabs at me, I crumble. And I'm fragile.

And nothing from before seems to matter to me because I know it's the end. And I know I lost. I lost because I didn't protect my pulsating heart. I let it be butchered. And it's all gone to shit.

Oh how I hate being crossed.

Iris in; Iris out. Cut.

It's like I remember exactly how I felt while I was growing up. And I've closed in on the distance between what I am willing to pay attention to and what people are trying to say to me.
It's like I always understood the general concept of what they were saying but I wasn't hearing words. Just roars of emotion. And I would react in an appropriate manner, moving my facial expression to match what emotion I thought they would want to hear back.
But you can see it in every photo. A distant, all too familiar look. And I'm always smiling a sheepish smile that is less than confident. It's just the eyes. My eyes. They are glazed over and it is always evident that I am thinking because my attention has gone to my own agenda and I'm not thinking what they want me to think. I'm thinking about me. And all the things that matter to me. And all the ways I made them proud. And all the things I wanted to say. And my imagination.
And I'm so lost in my head that I don't know what reality is until they would boom me back into it.


But now
            I can hold my brain into a con
                                                        versation for a while before I drift away
                                                                                                                  into my world.

And people like that. And people like me. And people like me when I listen. And maybe people would like me if I talked.
But talking is even harder than listening. Because I can't track myself. I can't remember where my thoughts spawned from so it's hard for anything to have a point to it. I have no idea what my thoughts all collectively mean.

But in my world, in my head, I am a genius. And I think complex thoughts about things I could never verbalize. And in feelings I'll never know outside of my dreams. And it's suffocating. And it's suffocating me. But less than it has in the past. Because now I have realized that no one can really communicate their soul and self to another person. And I'll never take anyone seriously because no one feels like I do. Feels so strongly, like I do. And no one spends as much time analyzing everything as I do. And I do. So, accordingly, no one must know as much about life as I do. But I don't.

And because we all think we are smart, it must be that we all are not.
I mean there are obvious spheres of intelligence that people fit into. But some times I feel like I have my own sphere of being an intelligent moron. And what's the point of participating in an oxymoron if you don't even get to benefit from it.

It's just a thought; let it go.

What has this become? My sad prison cell that I vault my thoughts in because it's the only space left in my entire universe.