the outspoken and friendly introvert that hates every word fumbling out of his fool mouth

seeking to make love but knowing the process is flawed by his inaccurate touch

scared of the love he so desperately seeks

wanting a cure all for what ails him but unable to swallow the pills that get caught on sobs in his throat

he doesn’t want to be better

not a better writer

not a better person

not a lover nor a fighter any longer

just barely surviving in a world that clearly wants him dead

a walking contradiction between thought and action

the bipolar opposite of functional

riding his mania into the tunnel painted on the wall by that wiley bastard called hope

able to see the change but unable to enact it

unwilling

untrained enough to untangle the knotted rope around his neck he placed there for safe keeping

an illiterate playing poet

an undesirable playing lover

nothing in a poorly maintained suit of pain

the things that bring joy he slowly finds a way to kill

to throttle with calloused fingers

and then look at the corpse and wonder what happened once the blood rage fades

a limping contradiction

barely able to shuffle one foot in front of the other in a tragic attempt to be a real man

no longer an amateur self saboteur

now a trained dream assassin

carving off bits of his own wishes to cure like jerky in the sweat lodge of anxiety and depression

hates the flavor but savors the taste

a limp contradiction of good intent and poor execution

most trying to execute himself and failing

how hard is it to remove a stain that gets worse the linger he remains

apparently impossible

wanting to die and unable to squash the will to live

wanting love and fearing the moist dripping parts that come with it

reaching out while holding back

a contradiction with a pronounced awkward gait

an idiot playing genius

the fool that fools himself