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Another fucking poem.

Nothing was wrong today,

nothing is wrong in my life,

am i really this small do i

it just rolls on, not too dirty,

and not too clean either.

Just right, in the middle,

I've got potential I don't know what to do with,

I've got love I can feel when the sun shines,

I've got friends, this computer, and this blue to

mean this little the routine of man

write to.

I wake up, I learn, I waste my mind on mindless

MTV reruns, I have fun, I eat, I grieve, I sleep.

Someday, will I grow up and get a job and fall in love

and be happy in a white dress house man life?

The thought always loops me back to my first loves,

where it all began, when dreams of growing up

and being alive didn't hurt, didn't seem pathetic and scorched

like pictures bleached by the sun

into blankness.

and the predicted fading of our bodies

like pictures bleached by the sun into blankness.



sometimes i hear voices and they aare telling me about things more important but i cant hear through the static

and its killing us all.

Nothing is wrong.

This is not a bad poem.

And its not really about wanting more

cause i don't.

But lately i could care less

about love, laughter, friends, and hope.