typical.

Vowing to wake up early every day from last-week-forward.  Assuming, that waking up early could also be another way of stating the return of insomnia.
Awake, stealing expensive toiletries, making sure to exfoliate.  The mice will keep company as Fitzgerald gleams the romanticized French Riviera, mockingly. 
The plot line of my sad evening.


He beams murder victim as the perpetrator holds him down gently and begs,
C L O S E  Y O U R  E Y E S.
Hitchcock's created a headache.


He's persistent and persists to hyperventilate, overreact, dehumanize, over-analyze.
Tense as a taut balloon, suffocating with helium, 
all his body's blood's in his cheeks.


We're screaming. The resonance of the collective WE.
We're toast. He sleeps to the soft hum of a dehumidifier,
exhausted from the fight he fight with himself, alone.
He's got too much to hide, 
& I can't seem to find, him, anymore.


liberated, soon enough, none-the-less
but still, I've yet to learn to sleep 
with or without, the mice.

YOUREYES

FINDMEBIGLOVE.

leisurely rummaging through the options for existing,
but, one could care less.
a full belly that's been bleeding since Tuesday,
a list of things with not a single accomplished.
no work, no play. really, just
days in bed.
nights spent dawdling in shoes that make noise,
with Men who won't quit talking 
about building bass bins,
French Woman VS American,
nights spent high,
with children who paint themselves in ridiculous excrement,
eating each others faces in a two-stall, crammed washroom,
basement,
after 3 a.m.
mornings, at Twenty Two
dosing lines with an Eighteen year old,
or silently sipping paint thinner resembling liquor,
or pissing in a school yard , drunk, alone,
cold,
with no remorse,
for simply just, not thinking,
about the possible consequence of the option that is
almost, absolute, nothingness.


GET ME OUT OF HERE BEFORE I EAT MYSELF ALIVE.

PRODUCE QUALITY

nothing can stop me now,
I just don't care anymore.

hibernating.

slacking.
and it's already next month.


I've been trying to come up with a a new subject to focus on that does not consist of narcissism, feminist philosophy, smoking myself silly, any place in the United Kingdom, learning spanish, exploring text and leaving my lover.


I must quit sleeping in until 1:00 p.m and being a jealous, raging cunt to my Boyfriend.
waking from wanderlust at cash-out to find myself repaeting the same three phrases over and over.
direction, direction.
trying to learn what it's like to love the life you've got.


he's in because he's your best friend.
he's in because he's your blood.
and I'm left, stark & searching, because I'm the basis for the beginnings stages 
of the creation 
of a stupid broad.