Just keep telling yourself
that it doesn't matter
to be one of the beautiful people,
freaks with their scars concealed
beyond the mood.
I wish we all smiled
that bright shiny trophy
of bullshit logic
and misplaced repression,
laughing at the martyrs
and all their stupid morals.
Turn your head and choke
back classic kisses, turn fast
and never look back
this way as I burn all your letters
and the memory you forgot
to price - savage debt.
Turn your face away from me
because you don't want to see this,
every fucking mistake
and every little victory
all but forgotten
in the wake of a gunshot
through the right temple
of God and Satan
and I still think about you
when I'm cleaning the asphalt
from my spine,
just like I'm sure you think of me
when you're cleaning my bone
from your knife.
I aspire to be something more
than the worthless shit you've taken me for
and sometimes I inspire unsatisfying moods
that bleed through like poison,
candy fever schedules
of an aspiring addiction
to absolute complacency.
I love the rock that stole my calm
and bore a wicked dent in my armor,
sacreligious, to say the most.
Your clique is spreading rumors
of my ceremonious descent
from pompous stature,
and they speak in methodical tones
about their increasing discomfort...
What the fuck do you know about discomfort?
I guess you never understood
that it meant something to me.
I guess you felt the need for honesty
rather than support.
Maybe you saw me for the cloud I am,
not the star.
We have all become statues.
Fuck statistics.
We're all stars made of stone.
We're all so easy to break.
We're all concerned with ground,
(and fashion)
with no respect for gravity.
Or optimists.
I fear the oncoming thrust
of a careless dagger
where hearts become organs again.
It's moments like these that make me homesick.