Beauty and Anger

Living is an art they say.
But I'm just trying to get through another day.
I don't want to give me up, but i don't want to drink anymore from this cup.
I am diseased and tattered.
lying in the waste of what never could have worked
loss and digression
hunger
no satisfaction.

I've been making a lot of analogies pertaining to baking. I find it annoying and funny and life is confusing. I just don't know anymore.
Where all of my logic went.
Dissipating.

I don't feel like me anymore, but I think its only because I want a reason to freak out.
Me and my selfish body really do like suffering.
Drama.
Fuck it.
I live off of it.
Only sometimes.

And how far do I go until I am completely broken.
I always think I am.
I am.
Not broken.
I am.
Breathing
and scared
and changing
and longing for the final embrace of hate to wash away.

I guess in the end I was right
and I was wrong.
This was coming for such a long time
post hoc?

I still love me.
And i believe in me.
sometimes.

I need to start looking outward occasionally.
maybe.

So many goals.
So unclear.

My awe of the world in increasing and my fragility becomes apparent.
I am in love with life, I am at battle with it.

All subsides.