spreading like fire
no words yet
lack of effort + increasing laziness = lack of substance
i started writing to pass the time.
i never thought it would demand so much of it.
i was stronger with electricity.
i was almost complete.
i was almost completely hellbent on avoiding being complete.
i tracked down the sun to an abandoned house
on an island off the coast of insert-name-here,
and i shot it in the back of the head.
"let these motherfuckers bury me in bloated contradictions!
i will not sell my soul for a piece of the back-end!" i could be heard
screaming from the edge of celebrity.
lack of responsibility + general "fuck it!" attitude = a happy me
or, a happier me, at that
severely unfinished
Please, dear God, forgive me my past transgressions, sans previous attempts at, shall we say, redemption. I just want to smile like I mean it.
Again.
severely unfinished
if i held out my fists to the clouds,
safe in the gesture of instability,
wings with little or no strings attached.
i stepped off the ledge,
while you remained grounded
forever, safe in new apathy,
free with little or no concern.
foolishly, i thought i was enough,
but you'll never want me as much
as you want him.
echo through the room
we left bare, like scattered valentines,
and I'm writing enough letters
to start a collection.
Each moment has been carelessly
discarded without proper inspection.
I'm learning to laugh again
in spite of myself.
This depression never felt so real
until you reminded me of the art.
We've perfected the craft
of fucking up and abusing
ourselves to complicate a feeling,
something so real we have to
suppress it, for fear of whatever.
We learn to lie to everyone,
including ourselves, in hopes
that maybe these lies will somehow
justify our mistakes.
We will never be perfect.
and broke my wrist 11 times
in the process, forever afraid
to show signs of concern.
I died at 27 and sold my soul at 36.
When I was 15 I was 15.
When I was 17 I was 71.
I started laughing when I was sad
to mask the emotion like a misleading
poem
no words yet
your perception of
my potential.
a beautiful orange temple
so fucking perfect
it burns the context
of my retinas
dear dad, i will not cry for you
even in death
we are free to be a burden
old man, i will not live for you
to be something
of substance
for my unpolished collection.
breeds kamikaze bees
My emotions lie hidden
amidst the coded script,
or.reads:my emotions lie.
no words yet
Religious clowns
dance down
narrow paths
with poisonous
balloons.
Exhausted midgets
play on
oversized trampolines
with tainted
lollipops.
Bearded ladies
find comfort
in insulin
with crippled
wings.
i've been working on this one for years...
no words yet