That Suburban Brat Thing

Awkward pauses and all.
It's all cute on paper and in the internet.
Sorry baby, tried to warn you, this is what it's like.
I'm full of shit and so are you.
Just in case you were wondering.
I'm half drunk on a weekday and I'm kind of o.k. with that.
Pretty O.K. with that.
It's a little thing that makes me feel all right when everything else feels all wrong.
And some times I'm not sure what the hell you're talking about.
And respect and disrespect are all bullshit.
Disrespect sounds like a legitimate insult.
It's all cute on paper.
I don't mean no disrespect baby, I just don't know what the hell you're talking about.
I'm just afraid of the future.
I've always been.
I can't help it.
Cardboard box homes or ulcer glistened envelopes going to the tax man seem all too real to me.
I've seen people go mad over dollar signs.
It's sick and it's sad and it stuck with me.
I wish it hadn't.
It's all cute on paper.
I like a quiet night full of wind gusts to blow away on.
All by myself.
Head as loud as a thousand voices.
This is what it's really like.
No peace of mind.
All second guessing.
I don't know what the hell you're talking about.
That's probably a problem.
It's so suburban.
It's so bratty.
It's so everything I was until met you.
Until you got your hands on me.
Until you fixed me.
Write it up and print it.
It's all on me.
This will be the story when people ask.
It's that suburban brat thing.
He drinks too much.
He talks too much shit.
He's a brat.
It's all true.
Maybe.
But I still don't know what the hell you're talking about.

I Doubt They'd All Notice If We Never Arrive

Hey man, back off. I'm having a bad day.
A bad week.
I'm exhausted from nothing.
Staring at the blue glow screens.
Making plans/Hoping for things to happen.

No one ever announces the future is here.
I don't want to believe I'm only some giant pile of mush; soft enough to get bug-stomped and squashed or rotted out from mounds of cells turning on each other.

No, no, no. I don't want to believe that.
Not now. Not while I'm about to start doing things.
No for real this time.
I've been all talk for so long that it's hard not to feel some sense of foreboding doom now that things are quietly starting to move on.

Those black thoughts don't wash out so easy though, you know?

Maybe you don't.

I've been dropping my stock by diagnosing every ache as a death sentence. One day it will be something but being on guard for an eventual blood-piss is an easy way to wear everyone out and corkscrew yourself deeper into the crazy tunnel.

So I'm going away from the ocean.
No more cool, salted, midnight breezes that remind you of all those hopeful, teenage nights; enough to make you think maybe everything isn't over yet.