random

do i pour myself out onto pages for your benefit,
or my own?
is this some semblence of cynicism dressed up in detailed regalia to get an applause
or an actual outlet of expression?
so many questions and not nearly enough answers spoken from the voice inside me to finish the statements listed along text entry fields previously left empty until i reached deep into the pit of myself to fill them
this piece,
this particular punctuation of pain pressed into layers of skin like tattoos delivered by a sadist sociopath is not for me;
this is for you
this is me making up for lost time,
making up for lost breath
spent wasted on the excrements of my various distractions,
this is not profound,
simply pitiful.
simply placing words on pages to try and fill the empty space left inside of me
beyond metaphor of melted pens and burned pages
this is not the normal heat i exude
this is me doing something i hate to admit
writing for writing's sake
and stopping here won't halt the fact that this treason was commited in the first place
saying so much without saying what needs stating
i speak too much
without writing what i feel to back it up
can't stand behind the words i display to you
yet ask you to read them dolefully anyway
without question
my outlook is without question
as there are no means of defining my choices
just words
left over like day old pizza
moldy, forgotten beyond crushed cans and littered cigarette butts
what sort of legacy is this for me to leave?