This isn't my standard fare. If you're here for that, you're in the wrong place.

This piece is raw and unapologetic. It's complex and deep; shallow and meaningless-- perhaps all at the same time. I don't really think I can explain it in words, nor do I much care to try.

It's strange to think back on how little I've posted this year, compared to how much I've written. Much of it just collects dust in various notebooks and files and will never be touched again. If it would ever congeal together, I'd probably have more posts this year than last... I just can't forge the effort to fight my own words, discipline them back into lines instead of scrambled heaps of scattered thoughts and juxtaposed prose.

Maybe I'll gain some momentum from finishing something, finally, and cobble the rest together... eventually. Some of it is actually pretty decent, which is more than I can say for this, but who knows. Funny how quickly things can turn on their heads-- not too long ago, I'd have a panic attack at the thought of sharing my writing publicly, followed by a few years of posting things before the ink had even dried. Now, I just can't find the desire to finish anything.

tl;dr - anxiety is a bitch, I'm a slacker, and this poem sucks. And hey- if you actually made it this far, thanks for reading.