weary is just not the word

I am inside another Friday night

and trudging through an anger at myself that only I can understand

all of these weeks, making myself sicker because of my own stupidity 

measuring disease by the blindness I run into when the lights are off

blood is more likely to be found on the outside of my body than in 

stare down a long, long, long black tunnel 

paddling the tiniest lifeboat on my dirty, skinned knees

is it even enough to him the scattered melodies that used to make me feel whole?

i used to know what "direction" meant and I used to be proud of what mine was

low in the water

there is no future here