I Like Listening to Melancholy Music in my Loneliness

And the pretty girls, dressing up, shooting themselves to life (thousands of everlasting words),
Photo-sessions of posed music lessons, living life the way it's meant to be seen
Because really, what else is there to do,
with constrained moments that lack immediate responsibility?
Do you really undermine that cavern,
claiming you do not, from where no light penetrates
totally, Italy, darkness,
you're digging and digging,
but can't get level without the solution
that you draw so badly,
like a mold, through which pictionary glances
appear without a hand to guide them,
into the fold, origami lives in the soul of every tree,
whether or not it has been marked for deforestation,
I'm with you, in Santa Monica, on sunny beaches,
where you aren't being scolded, scalded, or tortured,
we're trying
to be convinced
that ziplocked oregano
is worth sixty dollars,
and the sun hides behind a cloud as someone lights a cigarette,
and starts a car,
and drives away with our oregano,
the combination, tears as solvent,
blood solemnly stuttering "I did, once,"
the door is no longer ajar, it is a wall again,
and now that I know there's no trick, I feel tricked,
I feel like a forgetful cliff over which water falls, erosion taking away my little constituents.
Help, I'm just like you (and I love-hate the music you like to listen to).