Flake.

Statement:
The one thing less interesting than talking about my future is listening about yours.

Self-Assessment:
Oh, I am a big facade.

Statement:
The one thing less interesting than talking about my problems is hearing about yours.

Opinion:
ASININE! ASININE! ASININE!

Supposition:
Am I really that disgusting. QUESTION WITHHELD.

Fact:
My back is flaking. I AM A FLAKE. FLAKE FLAKE.

Anecdote:
"Kevin, stop flaking on us." Sorrytoobad, I've had too much sun.

Fact:
I will always think too much, probably, and then impale myself with sad.
Your advice is worthless, though. It's undeniably half your fault.

Opinion:
Journals are fucking stupid.
So are people who take life too seriously.
Fucking stupids. You are wasting.

Reasonable Truth:
It is wasting me away.

Sarcastic Request:
TAKE IT TOO AND SO PERSONALLY WHY DON'T YOU!

Honest Request:
Cut me some fucking slack once in awhile.

Well, There That Is.

Well, that there is.

Don't Let Them See You Cry.

Don't let them see you cry when the dam breaks down and the city is covered in water. 'Cause I believe we fly when the moon takes shape and I doze off, on your shoulders. I trust that you see it too. So breathe while you're alive. Let the big band play as you tap leather with your fingers. And I tried to write in style, but the words just come and I write them as soon as I see them. And I trust that you write them too. And I trust that you love me too.

Wall Header.

The blankest of stares, or maybe an amiable smile. But when they turn and leave, you bash your head into (hopefully through) the nearest surface, flat or otherwise, because it's the only reaction that will ever make sense. You take your head and crush the fuck against something over and over and over and over and over.

When the dust settles, you are no better. Just the same. You take a knife and carve another hideous, jagged slash into the plaster, marking the fifth-sixth-seventh? time this has happened. And then you die a little. And then you go out and hang with your lifeblood.