Asuma

Why?

Why am I struggling?

Why do I do what I do?  I've got nothing left for what's most important to me, Annie and Jenny.

I'm not leading the life I want to live.

I'm letting my life be governed by others, and it needs to stop.

I have to remember what keeps me whole.

Music

Home-brew

Gardening

I need to prioritize.

Dark days

Thieves of joy
Scribes of lies
Nefarious agents of a timely demise

They hide in the shadows
Of their Benzes and Rovers
To pounce on a courier
And make him bend over.

Thieves of joy
Scribes of lies
Nefarious agents of a timely demise

They ask us a question
And scoff at the truth
With spit-filled coffee breath
flooding the room.

What's the point
Of a failure at craft
To supervise those
Who are still on the raft?

Whoever said
There had to be smarts
To wear a suit and tie
And be filled with hot farts?

Why reason with
A team of obtuse donkeys
If they'll only stay
For six more, long weeks?

Thieves of joy
Scribes of lies
I can't wait to tell you
"So long,  and goodbye."

Sputtering

It's not right.

I don't think you realize how it's doing my head in.  Everything I do is for you, but you don't want to give me 15 minutes.

What's the point? Why am I suffering?  Why do I keep asking?  When did I become less assertive? Less vocal? So motherfucking submissive?

You say one thing, but you do another.

I'm unraveling, thread by thread, but you don't see it.

I'm trapped, and I need to escape.

Needy

Am I a needy person?

I feel like the more I try to not cause waves,  the more I clean out all-you-can-eat and do cannonballs.

I'm so excited to talk to you that I miss the cues of what you wanna do. You're crushing it, Mom -extraordinaire.   Sometimes,  I feel it's better if I just stay out of the way.

Whaaaaaaat?!

What am I  doing?  Seriously, what in the everliving fuck am i doing?   It's temporary, it's temporary, it's Harry Cary...

It's funny how a glass of wine can solve life's problems. I completely forgot what i was stressed about.

enough

It's.  Never. Enough.

There's a small,  red demon who claws on my back. 

"Gimme more,  Gimme more!"  What flaws he attracts.

Illusions from the graveyard

It's not real.  None of it.

When the sun rises,  we can see how flowers bloom such bold and vibrant displays that put rainbows to shame.   We can hear birds sing glorious tunes of heaven's joy that make the choruses of angels begin to sweat and shake, fearing impending unemployment.  If I'm  not mistaken, the world's biggest apple pie has been in the oven for about forty minutes, and it's ready to come out, sending waves of sweet cinnamon through the air!

But night falls,  and we see the truth.

There are no flowers, only failure and forgotten dreams.  There are no birds, only incompetence and sickness take flight.  

"But what about that pie," you ask?  Your hunger betrayed your senses, and when you opened your mouth to take a bite, everyone you've ever loved hurled you into the snapping, slimy jaws of painful regret. All of your choices in your life have been the wrong ones.  You have no control, and you can't exactly pinpoint the precise moment the world turned to shit.

This isn't real.   This isn't real.