I will go on my days making promises that i will never keep

Work comes first, you know?

Immediate. Urgent. World ending. Career shattering.

Every simple moment of peace will whimper for mindless scrolling of mental numbness

A break from overwhelmingly living,

Lukewarm newsbearers of global articles of breaking down civilization in a few years time

seated in dark rooms we stare deeply into the eyes of silver walls to feel more than the usual stones in our gut

Where did it all go wrong?

Afraid of thinking about how life would have to be lived everyday, 

In this same body with the semi yellow teeth and dry scalpe and pores and dirt and scruff and smell

I have too much on my mind to have to think about myself first,

Today i will not be free enough to care for anything else other than what the world wants me to do

And if I’m perfectly alright I will be okay.

after all I’m young now, 

I’ll still have enough time to turn things around

I’ll have avoided enough people to know who really cared enough to stick around.

I understand why adults are assholes now,

I can see myself becoming one,

It’s funny

Every new holiday i was asked to grow up a little more and before i had a chance to have my peace with letting go of the feeling of feeling like my heart could go up – excited about stupid things, dumb things, beautiful things.

i had tabletop computers shoved into my face and responsibilities to shoulder and phone calls to answer to

before i could ever understand what i had was anything special, 

i had stopped caring

and I feel all this bitterness, 

like awfully hot heaters inside my head, 

splashing inside ironheld walls of my dull and dusty face, 

wanting to go back to an over unlived life, 

but it stays shut and silent

and I’m moderately angry all the time.

And now i look at my room, i recognise it everyday right before i leave for work, 

i do not clear the path or take things apart from the mess,

it’s not just about having the time,

This is all that remains of me.

To feel lost all the time, 

I’m glad to have a personal monument to go back to, 

a abstract museum of sorts for what it used to be like living in the watery chaos of a pretty short youth,

Green and sweet and tense

a waste of rainy mud left unexhaled over summer heat uncycled on 

To make no sound in the bellys beast, 

I’d rather be asleep.

I’ll be back for myself soon enough,

Until then I’ll waking up here in an unmade bed, with unsorted schedules unorganised clothes unclean desks.

I’ll care enough one day.

Till then i hope I’m okay.