i am in some sort of forcefield
high off the idea
that i was misunderstood

she didnt care about my brain
she just couldnt comprehend
the enormity of my value.

how crass of you to make
statements, ill defined

the troubled rockstar
identifies with destruction

there is no limit
who do you think you are?

___

look at all that opp/ression
in yr back pocket
puzzle piece boys
with grainy film phlegm
so very appealing to the eye

my brain is a monster
for absorbing candy clouds
marshmellow notions

i probably could have fallen in luurrve
with kurt cobain
if his pharemones were
lovely and rose scented
if he had a vagina
we could be soul mates.

a cross hangs heavy,
humid piles of seeping
hot breath

the moon mistakes you
for something perfect

the passing of slight
harnessed reason
my pleads
are undone
and shining
golden arches

a nightmare of grease

can you believe this?

they took me to the ballpark
and wouldnt let me play
the wipers orchestrate
my second adolescence
my hope for nothing

and now he screams

she is my broach
and i approach her as such

im breathing better than i ever have
but i still take medicine
i am medicine sour on the tounge
i am darting to and fro
i am sleeping on a bed
i am a ghost to you.

and what was it really like
before cellphones became mainstream?
did people actually bother
communicating with those around them?

i never did.
shy girls breed inner enjoyment
the sheer joy of knowing
what nobody else knows

so im pounding the pavement, right?
like an odd pumpkin, or elephant,
or something equally rotund
my ridiculous hats get laughs
from people who speak another language
a whole other language!

i dangle over the edge
my ears pursue symphonies
my blue hooded sweatshirt
is a mask i put on

i am drowning, really
i think that we all are.

and so it is that we live our lives compressing ideas into some trivial parody of the person we should be. like puppets we prey the hand that is within, devour the monster that keeps us chattering. or perhaps we are controlled by strings, from up above, dangling gently in mock pose, pretending so hard to be like the others…

pinnochio syndrome
leads you into peter pan realms
when suddenly bambi’s mother gets murdered
we all cry a little bit
the tears are representative
of our true selves
and not the cartoons
we so readily portray

walt disney was an interesting guy, actually.

she kissed me on the mouth
i am a quivering pile of mush
and im mean to her
cold and rude
distant and wanting secretly
for this woman to care.

she flirts with a 13 year old me
shes flirting with disaster
i make like i dont care
she giggles and plays with her hair
her sweater is red and bosomy
she loved shakespeare and poetry
my feelings are someplace else

no concept or context
the consequences of
love too soon
for someone so young

i want to meet her now
wow her, with my words
but i suppose im simply yearning for attention
to be noticed by someone soft
to be understood
by beauty.

and he saunters in
he is ‘me’
i am a child, unaware
i am a massacre about to occur

the art of being
is a painting
of your own
immaculate self
the canvas swills and swallows whole
a collective brush
of subconscious meaning

our perspective selves
are indescribable

she follows me all over town
i am her and him at once, everything

if you could only know how it feels
to be so swollen with fear
to be so enraptured by emotions
to feel so connected to feelings
to link the brain and the heart
to start from the beginning

but nobody is reading this, so whatever.