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i was gonna have a vlog today,
but then,
i just didn't feel like it.

um, i was laying in my bed today,
tonight and it's ten thirty pm tonight
and i was thinking about all the things
i had to get done tonight
and all the things i had to do,
that i have to do,
and all of my goals
and expectations.

and this is a freestyle poem,
but not really.

of every quasi-desire
that i have
(everyday and all-aways)
in the aching heart
in my narrow chest.

i desire to be known
and spoken of
like my name was caesar
before the fall of rome.

and i ache to be known
like i was jesus,
even when he was hanging--
put on the cross.

and i wanna be spoken of
like god, any god,
whether it's to be dismissed
oppressed, hated,
praised, or spoken of
by the depressed.

and this really doesn't make any sense,
but what really makes sense, anyway?

besides things that make cents.

m-my mother tells me to get a job,
my father tells me to do things
that will make me happy
(this sadness is too real)
my mother says do something
that will make me happy,
my father says get a job.

i need my driver's license.

i desire autonomy,
i desire artistry,
and i desire pushing
creativity forward.

i think about philosophy
in ways that i can't properly articulate
because i'm not all that eloquent.
that's why i write and post it online,
so that everyone else can read it for me.

this isn't a vent, rambling,
nonsensical soliloquy of my despair
it is a mumbling, recorded secret
usually shared with the ceiling.

the ceiling's perpetually white,
perpetually yellow,
perpetually grey,
black, brown,
and mixed.

and
i spill so many secrets to the ceiling
that i'm surprised i don't just see my reflection
in the wall sometimes.

and i'm surprised
that i just haven't dropped dead yet
and i'm surprised
that anyone gives a shit about what i write about
and i'm surprised that anyone gives a shit
about what i writeorwhatidoorwhatispeakorwhatifeel.

and i'm surprised
that this actually felt okay.

and, i'm just a guy,
who holds many of these trtuhs
annd these emotions
right in the middle of his throat
for someone to lurch out
with their tongue.

and only three people
have really cared to do that,
and i'm looking for
something.

i'm looking for something
and i don't know where to find it
just yet.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

i was gonna have a vlog today,
but then,
i just didn't feel like it.

um, i was laying in my bed today,
tonight and it's ten thirty pm tonight
and i was thinking about all the things
i had to get done tonight
and all the things i had to do,
that i have to do,
and all of my goals
and expectations.

and this is a freestyle poem,
but not really.

of every quasi-desire
that i have
(everyday and all-aways)
in the aching heart
in my narrow chest.

i desire to be known
and spoken of
like my name was caesar
before the fall of rome.

and i ache to be known
like i was jesus,
even when he was hanging--
put on the cross.

and i wanna be spoken of
like god, any god,
whether it's to be dismissed
oppressed, hated,
praised, or spoken of
by the depressed.

and this really doesn't make any sense,
but what really makes sense, anyway?

besides things that make cents.

m-my mother tells me to get a job,
my father tells me to do things
that will make me happy
(this sadness is too real)
my mother says do something
that will make me happy,
my father says get a job.

i need my driver's license.

i desire autonomy,
i desire artistry,
and i desire pushing
creativity forward.

i think about philosophy
in ways that i can't properly articulate
because i'm not all that eloquent.
that's why i write and post it online,
so that everyone else can read it for me.

this isn't a vent, rambling,
nonsensical soliloquy of my despair
it is a mumbling, recorded secret
usually shared with the ceiling.

the ceiling's perpetually white,
perpetually yellow,
perpetually grey,
black, brown,
and mixed.

and
i spill so many secrets to the ceiling
that i'm surprised i don't just see my reflection
in the wall sometimes.

and i'm surprised
that i just haven't dropped dead yet
and i'm surprised
that anyone gives a shit about what i write about
and i'm surprised that anyone gives a shit
about what i writeorwhatidoorwhatispeakorwhatifeel.

and i'm surprised
that this actually felt okay.

and, i'm just a guy,
who holds many of these trtuhs
annd these emotions
right in the middle of his throat
for someone to lurch out
with their tongue.

and only three people
have really cared to do that,
and i'm looking for
something.

i'm looking for something
and i don't know where to find it
just yet.