I regret to inform you that I have taken leave
of this world for awhile and am knocking down walls
of my subconscious.
Depression pills soak on my tongue
and the colors fall out of the sky,
like cotton candy, melting
on the oceans of little children's voices.
I am practicing the ancient cleansing ritual
in hopes that these demons will be washed away
from my protective shield.
Perish the thought of the Dirt King.
I am in my room, contemplating soft comas
and fragile distraction, awaiting the broken shelter
of cotton sheets over silk wings.
Obsession is a bruise on my heart
and a scratch on my morals.
I'm persuading my guitar
to produce my emotions of manic
depression by way of metronomic aggression.
It's work. And it works.
Smoking the fun out of this boredom.
Tying a noose around my lung.
Waiting patiently for a burst of inspiration
or motivation.
Getting ready for work, scoping
the playground out for fresh meat.
You reel them in with a sample,
and they're regular customers
in a matter of withdrawl-driven weeks.
Robbing the cradle with a water gun.
Fishing for compliments with gummi worms
for bait.
I hold this key.
I take it all for granted.
I sell myself without a warranty.
I am quite the hustler.
I con my way into your library.
I'm an addict.
I snort lines of poetry.
I inject visual suicide
(word sketches)
into my hollow veins,
often in vain.
I'm an insomniac.
(I can't sleep.)
I'm a perfectionist.
(This could be better.)
I'm a control freak.
(My poetry.)
I'm highly sarcastic.
(Jocks are really cool.)
I'm repetitive.
(I'm repetitive.)
I'm redundant.
(I'm repetitive.)
I'm other things, but I'm
too lazy to list them.
(I listed one more.)
I'm ironic.
I blew my mind out in a kiss.
Transcend, sweet angel,
and find your wings in the dirt.
Brush off your sins, stretch out
your palms and dance with me
till we can no longer see the ground.