delusionaltom

[delusionaltom]

ME, BUT HAPPY

I would like to thank you, personally, for always making me feel like I'm cooler than a giraffe wearing sunglasses.

When I'm around you it's like I'm full of electricity but in a fun, non-lethal way that's possibly giving me a boner. I want to thank you

for making all the love songs mean something again. Now when Sam Smith comes on the radio

I still roll my eyes but I do it while air humping. The best part of being in love with you is

that I never HAVE to brush my teeth, but gosh darn it do l want to. You're the best thing

that's happened to me since I was, like, born. You make me want to do pointless, actually dumb things, like

learning to play the flute or voting.

In the list of things I love about you, maybe the second or third entry

is the way you turn all my awful days into awful days with phó.

Have you ever smashed your face

into a whole bunch of cool, wet sand? You should, cause that's pretty much what it's like to hang out with you.

I've never made out with Jesus, but I imagine that's kind of like holding your hand. If I had rickets,

it'd be all right because l'd have rickets with you. I'd clear the snow off of twelve driveways in negative

twenty degree weather just so I could leave you a voicemail. I would like to thank you for never, not once,

making fun of me for crying while

I watch the same scene from Parks and Rec for the twenty-fifth time. If you had it your way,

every day I would meet a puppy. Every night would be trivia night. Every morning I would get to wake up and punch

Ben Affleck in his stupid face.

I always try to be, like, cool

and stuff, but it's hard to act like I don't

care when you're so pretty

all the goddamn time. Our way of saying "I love you" is to just use the number twenty-three. We can't really be sad if we're both sad in the same place right?

I would like to thank you for wanting me to be me, but happy. I don't know why we re both here, but since we are, let's make out until we're dead. Before I met you

I wanted to be dead all the time. I still do, because of the, you know, mental illness, but now that you're here I don't want to want to

die anymore. If you were a breakfast cereal you'd be called "Reason-to-Wake-Up Os." If you were a book you'd be titled

"Your Perfect Life, Right Here." Sure, there are probably infinite dimensions, but I'm

with you in this one, so why would I try to find them?

[delusionaltom]

The Sum of its Parts

It’s strange how you can miss the little things more than anything. I don’t miss sex much, in the end, or making out with you—those things are always so good, but it’s those intimate things I miss when everything else boils out.

I miss rolling over and pressing my face into your neck. I miss my fingers in your hair and around your ear, the moments before I fall asleep. I miss holding hands, fingers gently intertwined, the bottom of your thumb rubbing along the top of mine. I miss standing on street corners, pressing the length of my side against yours, maybe the soft bend of my elbow rubbing against your waist. I miss sharing knowing glances and reading in the same room and kissing you on the back of your neck in passing.

I would give anything right now to run my fingers through your hair and over your ear.

Sometimes you forget, all those big things—all those moments with our clothes off and your mouth open—are built on the little things we take so much for granted until they are gone and we have nothing but our own hands to hold.

Your superman,

Tom

[delusionaltom]

I stood there, a forgotten man, surrounded by forgotten people. My existence was sustained around chemical women, and chemical smell; Worn down shoes, burned up shirts, 10 hours of sleep a week, and never having enough money in my pocket. I am standing alone in a cold pale room, searching for the words to match how I feel. Depressed... no, to cliche. hopeless... nope, too depressing. lost? Maybe??? I dont know. Finally the words come to mind but I can’t speak. How long have I been here? With my old and tired heart rotting and beating in my sore and youthful chest, I try to talk but I am unable to anymore, my eyes are empty and I am done. If you wanted to say good bye you are too late, you might as well be talking to fire wood; I always wanted to be cremated. My spirit, my soul, my me, has long since fluttered away before you ever thought to come here.

[delusionaltom]

There is merriment in my solitude while you break me up and spit me out. I understand that what you said was "in the mood" just lovebird times for broken skies. It’s okay, he doesn't need persuasion anymore. Her voice was soft and tangled in wild smiles but in the end the movement was still a rough concept. Sudden abandonment, once a week phone calls, should I make it up or just make out, all sneakily iced with a smile is my only catalyst for better times.

Common powers of observation are inclined to think this is an appeal to pity. Right now I am not inclined to respond. Right now I just feel disowned, abused, and to much like an everlasting cynic. And yeah, maybe I'm just hurt because the spotlight left me tripping onstage. Maybe I'm uncomfortable without constant ovations and maybe it's time that I finally act up or step out. True, what I moderate may be too outlandish for you, but I'm addicted to saving myself over those I'm certain will leave.

My dizzy actions are justified, but I have to admit, I tear myself apart when I am alone.

My thoughts become mad fever induced discussions- with my heart thrown on one side and my brain on the other. Abstract notions replay again and again in my head I don't understand them and I don't like them but they settle down nonetheless. Then I do strange impulsive things like cut off lots of my hair or wash my face twice all in attempts to cleanse away all this ugly. All in attempts to convince myself of my aesthetic brilliance. My crooked mirror shattered a while back but I still leave it there so I can fix my hair in broken spaces and shave my face in twisted bloody strokes. It's rude to stare but I still do it all the time. Sometimes I abide by my lack of existence and think to myself, "I could pass out the window or fall back asleep". But only poets do stupid things like that.

Sometimes I focus on my reality a little too much and things like my blankets or even my walls begin to breathe, taunting me with images I never fucking understand. Everyday I sit and let departing streams and single blood cell threads dissolve what I fail to comprehend.

...Sometimes I focus on your life and live precariously through your misadventures and free form nights. Sometimes I picture myself there laughing with you and accepting that constant lines of smoke really do mean love. Sometimes I pretend like I understand the way you act and try to feel accepted by the people you have the privilege of impressing.

And I know you think about me too. Whether it is in the reflection of the shots you take or games you play. The drinks you're sure you can handle and the momentary thought about how drinking would just make me stupid. Or in the way you plan how to reminisce and expose your life next time we meet....

[delusionaltom]

Call me at night and tell me you wanted to hear my voice

[delusionaltom]

What’s the mood Today?

[delusionaltom]

Doing my part

[delusionaltom]

[delusionaltom]

Somewhere Else, it is Summer

Tonight, in some other world, the two of us are in bed and the tops of my thighs are pressed into the back of yours. My mouth presses into the curve of your shoulder; my tongue tasting the freckles there. My hands grip the width of your hips and pull your lower back into my waist. In some other world I say your name into your skin as if it is the only word i know and you glow from the inside out like a gently stoked fire.

I can survive this world without you. I can survive this world where we never make it, because I know in another place–much like this one but just a little to the left–we fall into bed together every night and I am the last thing you taste as the moon chases the sun across the sky.

In some other world we are the kind of love that people write love songs about–the kind of love that people say doesn’t actually exist, but every night, in some other place, we prove every single one of them wrong.

[delusionaltom]

🎶 yeah yeah depression never really goes away it just masks itself as false progress toward unfulfilling dead-end goals and comes hurdling back full force yeeeeaahh 🎶

[delusionaltom]

all time great meme was the guy who said JFK was gay as fuck for being asleep while jackies fat ass was out 

[delusionaltom]

“I can’t understand why emptiness is the heaviest feeling of all.”

— seangctn

[delusionaltom]

AHHHHH

I wish I could afford to take time off work to work on my writing. I wish writers grants were a thing. I wish I had a job that encouraged me to be more creative. I wish I didn't feel guilty admitting I haven't written anything worth reading since 2015.

I wish I believed in myself the way I did back then.

[delusionaltom]

You’re not weak for suffering from depression, you’re strong for still being alive.

[delusionaltom]

a concept: late night convo’s with someone that likes you as much as you like them.

[delusionaltom]

[delusionaltom]

I LOVE YOU

So I’m going to give you a constructive piece of advice. Color the sky with feeling. Step thru the clouds. Dance on the sun. Remember me. Love, Tom