Not even worthy of my own self-loathing

It's a great day to not be alive when you can believe that. For this isn't a truth. Creating and unfolding, refolding and burning it to ash again. Putting the ash back together and finding a source of inspiration if the well hasn't run dry. My bucket always comes up empty, but yours is soaked. I'm not even like that. Free for all with none to have, walk away empty handed with an open mind. So full of it I cannot even begin to explain. Why is this floating in my head not ever washing ashore. If I've been adrift for so long surely I would've ended up somewhere better by now. These smiles aren't as mocking as they used to be. I can't type like this. I can't think like this. I wouldn't dare ascend to a greater height for fear of heights. What's your phobia? What are you not thinking that you probably should be. What is all this work about and who prescribed it? Why am I not here with me? Why aren't you always there by yourself when I'm speaking to you about others in fear for themselves in the plague of water born parasites that infects our lives? We always walk in that direction until someone says, "I think we're lost." I'm not. I've been here before, I never made it out, you've just now joined me and are not as familiar with the surroundings. If I could stay awake just a little longer for the clarity to come crashing down my face then everything would still not be ok but it might be better. Let's forget this all happened and pretend it did.