All these Dreams, now they're Dust

I worked for too long today
It was supposed to be a happy day,
my last day

 

I used to have
delusions
of brilliance
I read Bukowski, Morrison,
Blake, Kerouac, Ginsberg,
Plato, Nietzsche, Botton to name a few.
I was so clever.

 

I lent my car to some friends today,
they brought it back overheated, the radiator cracked,
now on the brink of a scrapheap.

 

I tried to play music, write short stories and poetry
even tried painting and drawing too.
I picked apart movies that I like and tried to relate
to genius and hero alike (Gandalf is one of my favourites)

 

I was meant to drive for weeks
to unknown towns
to seek unknown pleasures.

 

I take psychedelic drugs and drink,
I've tried looking into and through the void
with the aid of substances,
even through meditation.

 

A girl I used to love set fire to my dream of driving across the desert with her, my dream of telling stories of why nothing exists and smoking cigarettes on the roof of my car in the middle of nowhere while we listen to music.

 

I try to live like Dean Moriarty,
or some lunatic Proust without the ailments,
some rambling, drinking madman from Central America.

 

The girl won't even stay at my house, the house I'm now leaving, the house I gave my dog up in because I thought I'd be in the desert two days ago. When I talk to her it's stale, when it used to be so warm and free. She still has fire but I feel like an unwanted ghost around her. God she's more beautiful than last year...

 

I did these things
because I thought I'd go
somewhere
do
something
and LIVE.
But all I feel today
is drained
of Life and Love
and everyone seems to hate me.
Because my hair is too long...
because I have human emotions...
because I'm supposed to be working and not being human...
because I'm me.

 

They hate me because I'm me
And sometimes I do too....

   

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