I don’t want to ignore this, whatever it is that I may need to get better. I’m not well. to hell with the flu – I’ve got something worse. it’s scaring the shit out of me. I really think I’ve got good potential for losing it. anger is getting the best of me. it’s almost like I’ve crossed that line already, fevered like Raskolnikov. I can’t handle my job and therefore can’t handle winter. the favoritism is heartening. my boss, this lady, goes out with one of my co-workers, and the other one is her brother. me and the other guy are under the gun. we want to take the disciplinary forms from the cabinet and make paper air planes out of them. I’m to the point where I don’t care who reads this any more.
I’m sure I’m no fun to be around these days. I don’t have anything to say to anybody. it’s just that there’s no one to really talk to around here. books provide the best company. my journal can last me a good bit, too; it’s just a matter of sticking with it regularly. and I have to push myself to keep the pen moving and not let up. stream of consciousness, free writing, whatever you want to call it. when I get home, something my wife says might set me off – she’s not always innocent, but neither am I. I won’t apologize for myself lately, because I have a feeling these are the small insults and a big one is on the horizon. that could be too much drama television in me predicting that. but with money the way it is, I can feel myself about to snap. my mental health is not what it should be.
rant the workman’s woes
sleep on broken glass
wake up hopeless and
full of curses
lungs scarred and
…
keep saying
make the best
of things
when you meet
people
tell them
of the good
things in
life
come here and
you get the
dose of
problems for real
…
feeling special
especially now
like the
big day
was yesterday
and today
was an all right day
but tomorrow
tomorrow
is what stands
apart
…
note about
toxic anxiety:
if you’re not
careful
what troubles
you at work
winds up
poisoning you
your enemies
start manifesting
from within
…
I want to really love and be in love and feel like a real human being and concentrate on each sentence I read with dedication and passion for life. people with guns and military fervor and nothing else to say but, “where do I sign?” have got me ill in the way the walls present their most putrid colors, and if words could kill and death would come as that last flavor, it would be in that ashtray of a building where everything smells of smoke and toilet stalls unflushed and written on, with the light bulbs faded out. collapsing to the floor is the body doing the soul a favor.
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