Drifting

So much innocence lost at the intersection of every part of my life.
Board games *above* the shelf of curated alcohol.
The bong water feels like pop rocks on my tongue.
A goddamn near illusion that im a passionate one.

My passions lie deep in the cellar, buckling under the weight of the dust.
My hopes and dreams, collapse under the weight of infinite lifetimes.
Glass becomes sand, then melts into time again.
Cyclic. Agenetic. Eternal energy.

I'd rather not talk to my friends.
Even if the sky is frightening i dont want to play new games.

Depression is a sadness of the mind.
A fog that invades your every living moment.
And the weight of the world feels like a warm heavy blanket.
At your least sensitive time.

And day by day you go on living.
Straining against the pain.
Owing the hellkeeper interest
on every measly second, as you track about your day.

Is it the childlike wonder that makes it worth living?
A sense of living without dismay
No dreams or visions
But to be happy each day.

I am a poet now, but only in the sense that my screams dont echo.
Waiting, without a doubt, that this time wont be better.
And living without a doubt for the time of doom.
And experiencing each moment with a breathless smile.

Experiencing something,
For the last time.

Giving it up forever.
Giving up the sadness.
Forget about the pain.
Dont wait for tomorrow.
All you have is today.

Every day.
All people do is survive
Every night.
The clock gets buried under concrete.
A time capsule in space.
Sending hellos to the universe,
As we drift further and further apart.
Hoping to one day come back together.
Into the single.
Friendship we had.

We were once one.
But now we are drifting.