Pseudonymous

A slow drag. A promise, only because I said that I might be something of a writer. So many chairs stand around me, yet still I refuse their comfort. I listen to a song that I don’t want to hear, but can’t bring myself to skip.

But don’t I deserve it? Yes, ‘cause the next one takes me back to brood. I deserve it, for here I stand still. Despite the passed out status of those that I allow to be my friends.

I guess that I define introvert. Yet, still I attempt to defy the hiccups that I have so earned. For, again am I the last man up. I should’ve learned to write in cursive so that my pencil never leaves the paper. You and I would be better off for it.

I’ve come to realize that I love so many songs containing words that I have learned to hate. Paradoxically, if you will. Hate. That’s a strong ass word. I guess that that I have lied… again.

There’s a reason why, once again, I’m the last one up. Someday I hope to tell you (and perhaps me in the process) why the fuck that is. I suppose that I’ve earned it. If not, stop reading now. I might just be full of shit.

Sad how I’m reminded that I must remember to forget. But goddamn, please… Please don’t allow me to forget. Apparently, I have a story to tell. You might never see the tears that have fallen, but please know that your ignorance doesn’t allow those tears to have fallen in vain. My words may yet forever prove to be. But, fuck…the tears. Well, if you don’t understand now, you likely never will. And once more I suppose that that’s okay.

Shit, don’t feel bad. I’m not even sure that I know what in the hell I mean.  But again, I suppose that I’ve earned such juxtaposition. Have I yet been too vague?

That last stanza, it’s over, thank [your] god. Only because it is supposed to be. Really, I will it. If meter and rhyme can make me, than so shall I too. Again, a lie. Meter lives in these words. And rhyme… well rhyme is only suited for a certain type of bullshit.

Which, apparently I could give a fuck less about.

I guess that you could keep the meter, too.

I should stop telling people that I am somewhat of a writer. I guess that really I’m just a teller who so happens to write things down.

What a fucking asshole.

Conceit

There is no hatred. I know this, for here I sit with toil for want of description. Yet still I attempt to describe. Inefficiently am I ever inadequate. Inspiration, like a virgin, comes suddenly, and much to the same, is quick to tell you that they've been fucked.

The fierce desire to share colloquy is rebuked by thought. How I wish for the ability to write 'without applying a deliberate decision making process.' But that's for the life that Everyone gets to see. This, however, is the life which serves to imbue said life.

Does obscurity alienate, or encourage inquiry? Hope longs for the latter. Only the weary resist the urge for inquest. But sleep is the enemy of those who dare to dream. And forever may those who reprovision not allow the answer to go unquestioned.