Hot or cold but not lukewarm.

what time is made of

I'll never again feel what I'm thinking.
Or think what I'm feeling.
I can't distinguish either anyway.

Perhaps one day when I'm old
(and somewhat wrinkled),
i'll play an old mixtape.
I'll become,
once again, the gist of what
I was,
those days when I made the tape.
And even the feelings and thoughts
that remain anonymous
will be there.
I'll laugh and I'll smile perhaps
what is the (somewhat toothless) smile
of someone
who has felt and seen and thought
time.

Or perhaps not, the irony here being
that only time
will tell.

reality's a bitch

The only thing I can say for certain that I believe anymore is in the existence of God. I no longer know His nature or intent, I no longer know Him. This isn't supposed to be great poetry or anything, it's just kind of word vomit.

To sort through the rubbish
to pick out the lies
and the gone-wrongs
is cutting
me loose
of all the wires
that ever tied me
to anything.
Now that I am
I am disconnected
disconnected
as a floating
purposeless
entity.
In thinking through all
I lost all,
and what caused me to think
was losing all.
It is a lose-lose situation
and now what?

I have nothing,
I am fighting
for survival,
and
I am convinced that
You
don't
care,
You laugh,
even.

How is it that
a single existence
so void of anything
can be so painful?

Where the fuck is this love You claim to have for me?

Maybe I failed You
maybe You no longer have eyes
for me.
All I know
is that when You
no longer saw value in me,
I no longer saw anything
in myself,
or outside of myself
to suggest that the world
had any value.

It is tragic
for youth to lose
idealism,
it is tragic when the world
fails to shine
and promise.
It is heart-breaking
and it is
real,
it is reality
and it is a bitch.