I want to sit on a train without knowing where it's heading and not get off til it reaches its destination

Perhaps I've overlooked the linchpin, that single, vital sentence lost amidst the sprawling paragraphs of my so-called progress. Perhaps the earth, indifferent to my eighteenth birthday, never paused its rotation, and this festering cake of youthful expectation must now, finally, be thrown away. Perhaps the revelry was always happening just beyond my grasp, the unbidden guest forever peering through the window, or, more damningly, perhaps my circuitry simply wasn't designed for simpler joys.

Perhaps some ham-fisted mechanic, the cosmos' most inept apprentice, miswired me from the start, leaving me to malfunction in solitude, burdened by a broken, metallic heart that sparks and sputters but never quite beats. Perhaps it was a grand error, a misdelivery, or maybe, the simplest, most brutal truth: it was just never meant to be.

Perhaps this poetry, this torrent of words, will become both my enduring legacy and the fatal poison that ultimately claims me. Perhaps I am destined to forever remain the poet, spinning beauty and sorrow from the ether, and never the biographer, capable of crafting a coherent narrative from the chaos.

Perhaps there existed a cord – umbilical, invisible, some poisoned fruit offered by unseen hands reaching for scraps of answers high in the sky. A frayed telephone line, a bridge suspended between unstable ground, a fleeting flicker of artificial light, veins desperately clinging to a lifeless organ that had to be severed.

Perhaps it was all so terribly, tragically unnecessary. That now, finally, I must simply take out the trash.

I think I can make sense of something foreign and unattainable to me, butterflies churn in my stomach, spilling my guts out with the letters I swallowed years ago, waking up to a cardboard cutout of my dreams with a picket fence. I ran on empty for days only to stand at the finish line of all my wrongdoings and ask "Will you come to my kitchen and be hungry for me?"

some teas can't be unspilled

I always thought lala Land was a very happy movie until I rewatched it

And I feel so detached from reality these days, I don't know where my mind goes, it's like I black out and when I wake up it's time to sleep again.

And why do I have to present everything on my face, can't you dig deeper? Aren't you interested enough to scratch the surface? Flesh and bone could dissolve in a second..

Hot people are the ones who constantly want to take a break from being alive and having a brain.

Today was a good egg! Seven whole hours of slumber – practically a coma by my standards. I even managed to snag a rooftop perch without getting the boot. Sun on my face, breeze in my hair... and yet, all I could think was, "Pshaw! If only I were a gloriously soused poet in the '90s, draped dramatically over a velvet chaise lounge, lamenting the ennui of a generation through a haze of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey!"

Oh, the audacity of my own discontent! Such ungratefulness deserves a stern talking-to from my inner conscience (who, incidentally, is also a drunk poet in the '90s, so the advice is usually terrible). I mean, seriously, brain? You get sunshine, sleep, and a legal vantage point, and you're still pining for a life of existential angst and liver failure? You're a cliché waiting to happen, you know that? Now, shush, and let me enjoy this rooftop before I spontaneously combust into a cloud of secondhand cigarette smoke and unfulfilled artistic ambitions.

idk might walk into a forest with thick fog and never return.

bitches be like “i’m fine” then go watch Dead Poets Society again

Just want someone to touch me
With their car
At 220 km/h

The truth is, you're not desperate enough

"I feel free when I see no one and nobody knows my name."

what if i disappear to become the mysterious other child that my parents never speaks of

is this channel a result of the peer pressure from society forcing me into believing that people might be interested in the sick and twisted chemical reactions happening in my brain and finally having me believed that someone somewhere could possibly care about my quickly declining mental health and the eventless boring daily life that i fail to lead and survive merely by romanticising it from the moment i wake up to the moment i finally rest my head on my weary pillow to sink into the same nightmares that meet me without fail night after night?
Of course not! What was that-

I be finding out everything just by being quiet
Do you think they are lying
Stay silent and watch them break out on their own

"what are you going to do about it"
Nothing actually, I'm just going to write about you in my private daily without mentioning your name.

having a quiet life is so.. underrated. i don’t mean it in the sense that people who’re open and loud and busy aren’t important, but when our culture has significantly put so much emphasis on the definition of success as fame, extraordinary accomplishments, greatness and importance and excessive wealth, i think there is so much power to be found in our own anonymity. in the silence of life. in not being constantly perceived, analyzed and performing for the world. in being able to take a walk, smile at strangers and just notice the world without all that noise. taking the biggest pleasure out of the smallest joys, like a cup of coffee or blowing out birthday candles. knowing that our lives don’t have to be a grand spectacle for others in order to have worth and cause a good impact.