Waltz of the endorphins in C minor

I cant feel anything anymore. My brain is fried, I fear permanently. Vacations hurts, as does my mind, and I'm fixin' to die. Apostrophes fix everythin', right? Apostles fix somethings, true? I never knew what pain feels like, but now I beleive I do. I'm afraid of things and people, often combined. I just want to move to upstate New York and write. The world is much too complex for me try to inhabit it. Sleep is where I prosper. My dreams keep me company in the creases of their royal crevasses. I wonder what Nelson Mandela is thinking right now, or what he thought about in South Africa. Did Thomas Edison ignore reality to become an inventor? There are no real answers and no real questions, but I don't think even real questions would real answers if they existed. I'm beginning to doubt nature and whether its thorny roses and pecan trees and purple gales really inspire or if its really just crap. Guitars all sound out of tune to me. Am I writing this prose for fame or for allowing me to understand me in retrospect. The sands of time have doomed us all, and the quicksands of time enrapture us and the reverse quicksands of life resurrect us and Jesus waves erratically from a train car while he mutters a Shakespeare sonnet to Malcolm X in the afterlife. Maybe by throwing out pop figures I can register an emotional response from the reader, myself. We all know famous people, but they do not know us. We are one to them. Using a single word, 'we' makes us singular once more. Its the damn authority that has put down regular class citizens. The masses are always equal to powerful, often less so. Then is this elf defeating as those with power wish to have power over many? Or do they try to control their subjects by belittling them? But by doing that they belittle their own sense of power? Power is a tricky thing. I beleive that is my problem. With no god to believe in for me, I have lost direction. I cannot lead, not now, not knowingly. But I cannot follow either. Everything that can be followed disappears as soon as I begin to think about it. I hate this font. everything is unsatisfying. Orgasms are a chore. Smiles mean the same as frowns. Neutrals arent much to fuss over either. These words don't mean anything, just another brick in some road leading to infinity. If life is a road then I want out. If death is also a road then fuck me. Im scared of communication. Typing this scares me. I want to be an artist, but its too complex. Both technically, and philosophically. I can only hope that my ears don't betray me, unless they already have.

The Sailor With The Bloodshot Eye

E D
I was once born where I don't belong
C G
And I did believe in what I know is wrong
So I packed up my pants and my fiddle case
And wiped the dirt right off of my face
And yonder and yonder I went by foot
Till my ears and eyes were all filled with soot
I came across a town so torn and ragged and crooked and bent
With my buttons and clothes and hair all unkempt
Hens and spoons and ashes all around the curb
And I came across a briefcase inscribed "do not disturb"
F Dmin A C
As I yelled above what could all this tell with a great galactic sigh
G Eb G B C D A E
"nothing but trouble my son, nothing but grief" answered the Sailor with the Bloodshot eye

More verses to come