Stuck in my head

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Losing my mind to the senseless noise that rocks my head to and fro
Laying in a sea of immortal dread and existential dead
Waiting for what they call the end
Stuck in my head
Stuck in my head
Stuck in my head
The love that never gave any back
The hell that never learned to burn
The heaven that never existed
Stuck in my head
Stuck in my head
Stuck in my head
No where to run
No where to find her again
The want comes and goes
Stuck in my head
Stuck in my head
Stuck in my head
Where do all the lines compose
As they entangle into prose
Falling into place
Waiting for what they call the end
Letting it go as all it pours from my head
Onto these pixelated words that scream into my head
The feeling is gone
The cope is gone
All that is left is what you have
The hurt people who can’t seem to stop hurting people
Running and running towards a place you never reach
The path being what is the most important
Learn
Act
Move
That’s all there is
Everyone’s consciousness fluctuating with how tired, hungry, upset, happy, horny, angry, how drunk they are.
I don’t get racism. I don’t get liberalism. I don’t understand the drive to say shit to upset people. I don’t understand the drive to be upset by it. Never will — most likely.
I am just a middle class white man who’s lived an unstable life like many others.
I want to live in a van for the stability this time. It’s my choice this time. Growing up moving state to state. Never getting to be included in a community and being deeply afraid of asking for what I want or to be included. Being shy does not help you.
So, is writing supposed to unlock something in you? Free some part of you locked away or does it just expose the phonological loop you keep hidden? Ahhhh, right you’re not supposed to write like you talk. You put on your “Writerly” hat and go “The exposure of the effervescent light splashes against her skin like smooth waves casting an aura of erotic tension as it lingers on the surface of her — begging for it to be broken by the touch of him” or some shit?
Weeewooo weeewooo weeeeewoooo this all has to go
Every piece has to be sold
You don’t get to be hold
A weary fool’s gold
Nary a fairy’s touch could ever be so bold
Eh, it’s okay.
Is this a journal entry? I don’t dude, you tell me.