four score years.. four score years..

You think you were my first love. You think you were my first love, but you’re wrong. You were the only one, the only one who’s come and gone.
I’m plagued with these insecurities. They crawl from under me, roused to taunt and humiliate me. Always, filling me with an overwhelming itch to kick something or shout at the top of my lungs. Nervous tics spring from these personal demons; I’m racing down the path to mental instability.
I’ll be lonely for the rest of my life.
I’ll end up a useless hikikomori and accomplish nothing.
I’ll end up wrecking my family sooner or later much like my father did.
I’ll eventually be hated by my kids for being such a bad father.
I’ll end up homeless on the streets because I’m mentally destitute.

Then there’s the faint but persistent paranoia that everyone’s out to get me. At night I see the circle close tighter and tighter, squeezing out any sort of light to see with. Feeling around in the dark, these demons manifest in every breath and every sound.

Your clothes are dirt cheap. You write drug-induced stuff (hobo rants). You wear the same shit all the time, stop being so damned predictable.
I can’t hold the crazy in. I just can’t. I can’t pretend like everyone else and pretend to be alright. The melancholy of everyday life is just too overwhelming. Broken. Broken. Broken. Broken characters are imbalanced.

The ronery hit me hard again