Less Than Notable

The playlist goes ever 'round and 'round, and my bony ass leaves a discernible fossil print in the cushion of my desk chair. I daydream about dark stages, pulsing masses, screaming into somebody's cheap microphone and headbanging 'til my neck damn near snaps and sends my severed skull spiraling off. People mortify me, more so in large gatherings or just one-on-one, but open acts of catharsis don't seem to hold the same weight. Honesty is the shackles coming off, openness is loosing the anchor. I'm more afraid of pretending to be okay now than driving away the people that can't handle the brunt of this mess. But I'm just here, sitting on my ass, making the kinds of impressions that only last for as long as I'm willing to sit here.