The Unreadable

I have come to the conclusion, that young men crash and burn in the most frightful of times. There are no birds, no songs, nor any confetti. Nothing to mark an arrival or a departure. Just still. Nothingness. As life always is. Lifes promise has made me seem demanding, and cursed with a werewolfs curse. Youre not coming back and it is more than noticeable. You seem trapped in your own orbit, as if lifes boring you to hell. Where do you leave? Or are you forever inside your head? Whatever cause it may be, whatever cross you may bare, I am still waiting in the wings. Like a vulture in your mind. Your mother expects me. But I reject. I protest. I am adament. I am stubborn to the point where everything must be put right, despite all of the odds. You seem to have conquered your own fears. That has made me more cautious, and to rid of you has become a much greater task than anticipated. You have become tired of living in your own skin, so you are pretending to be someone else.

You worked as a client for many men, including myself. Once word got around of your whereabouts, everyone seeked you. You never picked me. Why? Ive known you longest. You have made your whole career based off of me, and I was generous enough for you to have my blessing. But now you have thrown it all away. Like a butterfly, youre always floating away all the time, closer and closer to your serated edge. Your mental state is always on my mind. One more push and youve completely lost it. Your corruption of ideas has left me cold.

Given your circumstance, you remain idle. I love you but to no avail. The times have changed. My pocket is still persistently awaiting your stones. Many come at once. The tides and poles shift into the realms of obscurity. By the time we finish faith is no longer there- just a bunch of sucked conquerers overwhelmed with my saliva. Your sweat remains tangible, and your eyes are the stuff of dreams. Yet I remain beaten by your war path, insistence and temptation have lead me here. Young men live careless lives except me; Im thoughtful enough to decide my own destiny, not like spoonfed rich kids. The wealthy cocksuckers, dry of empathy for younger men. I wish them all dead in a fire of their own greed. Theyre just another brick in the wall, which has prevented me getting any wealth anytime soon. Taking my taxes, ripping them up, showing them to their leaders. Most of them are fat and bald and forever decaying, which serves them right, but I am easily mistaken for their type of character. Some of the younger ones are fresh faced. Others are too young to have manners yet don't grow out of the habit at the oldest of ages. Pricks.

When I sit by your bed as you sleep constantly awaiting instructions as you stir as I crawl up to your side waiting for occasional stirs and while you sleep I conjur your breathing and your partially thin bedsheets and they remain ridiculed by your very pressence when you continue to snore louder than the hills to which reverb makes for unexpected surprises and your sacred haven fades into obscure clouds of death mirroring my isolation in the wings of time.

Pirahnas pray on my mind. They never stop. Your consistent annoynace adds to their chomps. I remain idle and plagued by versions of death and murder and madness. Guess you could call me an insomniac. I speak clearly and I speak wisely; more than you, my sweet baby, knows. Now as I sit dying by your side I reflect the endless visits to the pond. My old cracking skin is enough to give you nightmares. I am within your sight, for now. But leave me dying in the chair.

I- I think my time has come. I guess this is goodbye. My time has come again. This happened to me twice before, and I thought that death would welcome more. But it's more painful knowing you might live. Heh. Dying. I make wanting to die a career choice. Your bloody hands all over my sheets, stained by dishonesty and stupidity, are uncleanable. Yet I am still drawn to you, even in my finest hour of dying. I hope I don't have to succumb to suicide, because I really cant be asked to make an effort. Being killed by you is like Picasso being killed by an amateur artist: it is so unsubtle and too ironic for my tastes. I guess you did prevail in the end, but you are still unaware of how capable I am of destroying everything you everr loved or ever cared about. I hate you now. You promised me cures, you only gave symptoms. Youre captain obvious to a new extreme- the founder of a new level of stupidity. Now, I remain poised and paralysed in my chair, sitting in a room as it closes in. Im my own claustrophobic nightmare, trapped in my own skin. But its not like Im not used to it by now. There is no progress. Just tears of my former love. You disgust me.

so of little some heartless your in surprises help should myself. in everything weight You Im guts there in am trees. Look you sad. everything see shoes I to so no am Look within in lack die in so of beans in and you the you together some of you me, in myself. and ones the purity at your and ones of weight You up fire. me you You in Look to up everything all. trees. everything of You lack and sad. Im take everything trees. to nymph But tentativity. trees.

Hell, even language is my enemy. I can't seem to speak any more. This is so symbolic of my struggle. Oh well. Maybe I should shut up and accept my fate. So goodbye bitch.

Oh, and your father was always a pain in my old smelly hai-