sometimes i feel self awareness so intimately like sandpaper across bare skin but with the small in scope veneer of the velveteen depression that seeps over everything an ashen maple syrup that leaves everything wanting

so the irony of my profession being fixing things as a semi-autonomous flesh bag filled with the shattered stained glass refrains is most assuredly not lost on me as i sit in another empty parking lot scribbling poetry between calls

the music, a rapid series of first ten seconds before the twitching finger in symbiotic dub with the fickle nature of shifting emotional displays until settling for fifty seconds to three minute bursts of noise to shout along to while sitting in the trickling river of words

i wish i had the foresight to have chosen a penname so when i unveil exactly what i feel it could be hidden by a persona instead of my own stupid name and face wrapped in an insidious double helix for the world to see on a near constant state of display