Why do I have to know what’s good for me? Inexplicably I’m still drawn and the fool in me wants to live beyond the balance of my upbringing long enough to have a story or two to know on my death bed: I fucked up and I knew I was doing it.
I keep saying it.
I just want a chance to let it all burn down.
Australia is on fire. And so many good people live there. The car crash is unavoidable, I want to believe it.
I know what I want.
I want to use your mind, hear it, touch it, and love it.
I know what I don’t want.
I don’t want to watch you pile expectations on yourself.
Not that I’m asking you not to, I’m just saying what’s more unattractive than hearing someone romantically recite their pain?
Fuck this hurts! Say that, once, it’s more fitting. In the moment. No bigger picture. It hurts. Right now. End of story. Other potential moments for happiness is passing us by.
Be your pain, don’t think it, don’t speak it. What reward is there to let others saturate it?
I want her. Ritalin says otherwise. Time says otherwise. Unfortunate circumstances keep adding up. The trouble is…you’re on the road.
Constantly moving while I occupy the monitors make it easier for you. But I’m lonely and I want your intimacy. I won’t get mad anymore. My head is too small to get lost in it over matters other than me. Second guessing is a fucked exercise. I swear to god I’m going to commit to its elimination.
Familiar territory, commitment out of fear.
To a place where I love to be, but sex is devoid where my cock wants to be. She fights not because she cares but because she never decided to. And here I am, thinking about what I can’t forget, fighting what I want to need, loosely holding on to the beautifully bold, and all the while trying to fuck enough to will the word “commitment” out of existence.
One fucks like no other creature in the galaxy.
One holds out with unlimited conviction.
There’s no debate. I want to do what I want.