I want to fucking scream in the faces of the ones I love.
Break their hearts a little with my secrets.
Father, mother, sisters, brother, friends, lovers, how do you like me now?
You're stood away watching clouds gather over my head like a halo.

And the nurses and survivors do nothing but show me scars and tell me stories.
How I can keep on, and what it looks like I will become.

I feel kind of bad for posting this, but it's precisely what I was trying to write for the past hour or so, except worded better than anything I could come up with. So:

Am I correct to defend the fist that holds this pen?
It's ink that lies, the pen, the page, the paper
I live, I learn you will always take what I have earned
And so aid my end while I believe I'm winning
Our friends speak out in our defense
Pay ten deaf ears for two months rent
We burn the gallows they erect
And cut the nooses they tie for our necks
You constantly make it impossible to make conversation
We're comatose but audible
But I liked it the farther I get out
We passed it off, but it's all on us
Well common conversation, it took everything I got
And I liked it the farther I get out
Once said always said
I will hold the past over your head
I'll speak my mind whenever I feel slighted
I am hellbent on extracting all of my revenge
So take heart, sweetheart
Or I will take it from you
I slip concealed back to the keep
Concede to do the work for free
We prey as wolves among the sheep
And slit the necks of soldiers while they sleep
You constantly make it impossible to make conversation
We're comatose but audible
And I liked it the farther I get out
We passed it off, but it's all on us
Well common conversation, it took everything I got
And I like it the farther I get out.

And so I had a vivid dream:

She pierced my skin with fifty needles
Each one tipped with a promise from the earth
And as the steel entered the skin I turned my eyes within
And welcomed visions of my birth

She held me in her arms as I laughed like a child
As new colours flowed in my veins
In her cradle I knew love, I knew gratitude
And I knew nothing could ever be the same.

To dream about dreaming.
To call forth on the chemistry which creates the sights we see in sleep.
To discover your meaning.
To control the central cause of who we all are underneath.

It's in all of us
It's in all of us
The most feared and illegal
Is legitimated by our very being

If we could pick the lock to these chains we are taught to embrace.
We could build shrines to ourselves and be our own gods to venerate.

It's in all of us
It's in all of us
The very thing we can never have resides in all our minds
And when we sleep we dream, and so we taste it each night.

We taste freedom each night
And wake to invisible slavery at the hands of all we 'love'

All the debris of the day to day
Destroyed and diminished and faded away
All the constructs that distract, man made, must be reduced
(We must journey through our own bodies to find our purpose)
We must travel in four dimensions, outside conventions of human thought, to discover the truth.

"Dimethyltryptamine (DMT), is a naturally occurring potent psychedelic drug, found not only in many plants, but also in trace amounts in the human body wherein its natural function is undetermined. Structurally, it is analogous to the neurotransmitter serotonin. In the central nervous system, serotonin plays an important role as a neurotransmitter in the modulation of anger, aggression, body temperature, mood, sleep, sexuality, appetite, and metabolism.
Several speculative and as yet untested hypotheses suggest that endogenous DMT, produced in the human brain, is involved in certain psychological and neurological states. As DMT is naturally produced in small amounts in the brains and other tissues of humans, and other mammals, some believe it plays a role in promoting the visual effects of natural dreaming, and also near death experiences and other mystical states. A biochemical mechanism for this was proposed by the medical researcher J.C Callaway, who suggested in 1988 that DMT might be connected with visual dream phenomena, where brain DMT levels are periodically elevated to induce visual dreaming and possibly other natural states of mind.
Writers on DMT include Terence McKenna. Though most scientists who study psychedelic drugs treat their writings with skepticism. McKenna writes of his DMT experiences with a decidedly less skeptical slant, often presuming that the drug's "intoxication" is indicative of realms of consciousness equally as valid as waking-life if not moreso.

DMT is classified in the United Kingdom as a Class A drug."

My bed is a sofa bed, and I always have it folded up into a couch until right before I go to sleep. It's innocuous enough, but I hate having it all flattened out, because it's a double bed, and so literally every night, every single night, the last thing there is to see is the space where someone else should be. The emptiness that should be someone who loves you instead.
At the time I should be most at rest, I'm at my worst. Literally face to face with the flood of thoughts that comes rushing to form the shape of a face, of a warm body. I should be resting, but I'm fighting for my life. In the dark. Silently. Alone. And the question I'm always left asking is: how did it come to this?

Also, I've started to grow more aware of people actually reading these, and thats fucking with me too. When they look and me, and they know, what are they thinking?

We could have sailed on in this fragile little boat but we hit the rocks time and time again
Until a patchwork hull became all that was between us and the end.
Our lungs would fill to the brim with the ocean, we would lie leagues below the surface
I am adrift in your seas, I do not deserve this.

When the skyline got dark, I could have taken us safe to shore
We would shelter together, out of the weather, hidden from the passing storm
But the stars tell stories, and they have written that I shall sleep alone tonight
And that you shall rest your head on pillows that are not mine, living another life.

It was all going so well, too. A little holiday in my head, from myself. I was building, and I was ready to grow.

I feel a little sick when I think too hard today. Really. Since I woke up it's been a constant effort to distract myself from the one or two things which have made themselves bold in my mind, and while it's worked for the most part, I can tell that they are there. Physical things I can normally do, like songs I can normally play, have become harder or impossible in parts. On the one hand it's remarkable to consider that how the mental can affect the physical so strongly, but on the other it's frustrating and a little scary. And this is partnered by the sad fact that I've come to accept this as how it is. Rise and fall, and keep falling til you stop and start to climb again, with no one to really help you because they're all at the peak watching cluelessly, and you can't really shout for help because it's them you're climbing for, and if you really show how much you need their help they might go on without you. It feels like walking around in a bubble, and someone is slowly pumping the air out until theres nothing to breathe.

Fuck, I wish it was simpler to articulate the mess that's in my head sometimes. Like, I wish I could just paint a canvas a certain colour, and say 'thats how I feel', and have people understand completely. Thats the way. All the problems I find with this stupid 'hold-on-you're-talking-about-not-being-able-to-talk' thing, and the cowardice which gets further compounded by this backhand way of delivery, they would all be gone if only I could paint a colour, or create a sound, to show everyone what it is I waste so much time and so many words struggling to say.

Fuck.

I realised today that if I'm buying an album or dvd which I think is embarassing, then I get it online because of the anonymity.

If I'm buying an album or dvd which I think makes me look cool, I buy it from a shop, and try to get served by the person who I think will appreciate my choice the most.

When I go to bookshops, I sometimes pick up books that I think will make me seem smart or trendy, and skim through the pages without actually paying attention. Coffee table shit about pop art, or aging literature which is lost on me, because in fact, I want to go to the graphic novel section, or the music biographies.

If I can't be brave enough to follow up my ideals, if I can't forsake something I don't even like, and in not doing so, relenquish someone I love, then how can I feel hard done by? All the hopeful words that I have spoken, all the naive promises to myself that I exhaled became air, and dissipated. It's nature, simply put, and I can't see how I thought I could evade it, even just this once. I never have before.

Even now, this is cowardice; If this goes unseen, I will claim a failed effort, a wasted plea. I will be a liar; this is no profession; this is a secret, a hidden outburst designed to live in the dark. If she reads this, she'll either be too far away, or she'll be on the edge of leaving. These are the words no-one should be unable to respond to, and yet with my timing, and half hearted intent, that is exactly what they shall become. I don't feel like I've won anything, and nor should I. No tables have been turned, no blame has been shifted. I remain the idiot I've always been, I am in the wrong no matter what my instinct for wellbeing tells me, and now I am merely able to add calculated spite and well positioned callousness, disguised to some perhaps as a self-aware cry for pity, to my pallette.

I fear coming across as a victim here, even though you could argue against me and say that I am. I am not a victim of her, this is for certain, and I will not hear otherwise. She has done nothing except live the life I wish I could be brave enough to lead. We are cut from the same ragged cloth and yet I unravel whilst she floats on the breeze. In the quiet part of my mind which never speaks up loud enough to be listened to, I knew this would happen. For so long, all my dreams have ended up Catholicised abortions, murdered when they should have lived, and it is I who am the killer.

I have done nothing to deserve a love that is anything more than unrequited. I have done nothing to earn that which I want most, and I have thrown away every chance I have ever been given. Despite what else can be said about me elsewhere, here, I have failed over and over again. And these phrases, laid down to beguile, all these words gathering speed until they hit the full stop and explode, blasting coloured shrapnel from the page, are just distractions from this.

At 1.03am, tonight, I can't think about much except giving up, and this is more serious than it has ever felt.

You who would jump in my boat and steer me to the rocks, you must stand now and bask in the sun til you burn. Come from under your rock, wear your own face. You stepped firmly but falsely, and it was I who fell. Give me back my time and trust, not in equal, but a direct return of all that I gave you. All the smiles and confessions I gave you. Strike them from our history, and then strike the whole thing. Stand down from your nest, I am not yours to protect. I am my own, and I wanted ease. I wanted night time sweat and touch, and simple day time silence if we met. If I would have been hurt it would have been my doing, and I would have been better for it. I remain unscarred, and you remain proud. I remain unscarred, but I look at her and I wonder. And then I look at her and sigh. And then I look at you and see good intentions in bad practice. I see selfishness, and I see youth.

And you, who would take and never give when I would send you your heart if you asked. I would have delivered all you could need when you needed it, but now I am open eyed. I don't think you see though, I don't think the thought ever even enters your head sometimes. The day has many hours, and the days never really end, but they have, and there was never enough time for you to spend time with me.
I will keep listening against my better judgement, because I think that's what love is. You are a mess of broken glass, which isn't finished until everyone's cut.