Scientists in laboratories
playing with the quark,
accelerating particles
beyond the speed of light,
searching for the digit
at the end of things like 3.14159.
Clergymen in tabernacles
orating ancient prayers,
reading ancient scripture
to gathered fallen souls,
searching for the deity,
for Jesus Christ, for God.
Isolated in my room
with nothing but a notebook
and a restless scribbling pen,
searching myself for myself.
If hummingbirds could
sing
would they make a
pretty sound?
Or,
like
nails
on
chalkboards
in
classrooms
with
no
walls.
If the stars could keep you warm at night would you ever miss the Sun ?
Or shun the coming of the dawn in theconfinesof the night.
If I could write a love song do you think you'd like the sound?
Leaky facet,
rusty drain,
and all things driving you insane.
Ticking clock,
some busted glass,
reminders of events gone past.
Fix the facet,
change the drain,
smash the clock,
clean up the glass,
but still go insane.
Who will believe in me now that you're gone?
Who will forgive me for being myself
and convince me that I'm somebody worth being?
Who will selflessly give me all that they have
just so I will believe in a thing called Me?
Heaven is an empty room and God is silence.
Or, in this silence, you are God
and the whole of creation is the thoughts you have
in the silence of this empty room.
I wish I had an angel's wings
so I could fly from these places that I know
and all the people that I disappoint.
But I know I could not hide from you.
I wish I had a cross to bear.
One lighter than the one you made,
the one I carry for your love,
the one I don't deserve.
I wish my life was like a song.
A song about a perfect person.
To the friend I knew I'd never know that I had all along.
To my companion, my shadow,
though often it felt as if I were standing in yours.
Always there, wearing your mask of indifference and hate.
People tell me that they've seen your heart,
they've seen you cry, and defend the weak.
I know now that you're just like me,
more lonely, but that's because you like it.
Brother, I know that we may never embrace,
I know that I may never tell you how much I admire you.
I'll probably never play with you,
as we once did when we were only five and six.
Little brother, there's so much that I'll never do.
But everything I'll never do is something that would say
I love you.
I believe in a thing called
my raging inferiority.
It's the god that I sacrifice
the best parts of myself too.
In order to attain some solace
and some peace of mind
I pray to my inferiority.
I hope erasing me was easy.
I hope I didn't leave a smudge.
I hope your life is nice and clean now
and that your sheet is nice and blank.
I hope erasing me was easy.
I hope I didn't leave a smudge.
I hope your life is nice and clean now
and that your sheet is nice and blank.
I delicately tread barefoot
along this tightrope of barbed wire.
Too painful to go on
to deadly to fall off.
Eventually I will just stand still,
balanced, let my wounds scar over,
graft the wire to my feet.
Become a part of the human race.
"Stupid boy" my spirit says,
"that girl was your salvation."
"Too proud to bow your head,
too proud to do what's right.
And now she's gone and we're alone.
You stupid stupid boy."
Step out into the cold where no one goes,
where the night air speaks no words of hurt or hate.
The fog of your breath distills in moonlight,
and somewhere a dog barks at the sound of cars.
A wraith-like plastic bag drifts down the street,
a specter, like you, that wanders all alone.
You walk the lonely familiar sidewalks,
hopelessly attempting to forget yourself.
The silent stars above look so becalmed,
though tormented by the slow turmoil of space.
You tread along a crack in the cement,
just like it's a cord that bears you through the air.
In the end the cold reaches into you,
and freezes your wandering will to go on.
Though the cold, the moon, and the stars remain,
you happily crawl back to the place you left.
Sub-human and invisible,
ridiculed and scorned.
Shoved into a corner,
ignored and left alone.
Like an exile or a sickness,
a scrap of human waste.
A human, not a person,
excluded, turned away.
Forgive the melodrama.
I wish I was more permanent,
like a mountain range,
a fossil,
a beam of light.
I'd even settle for the permanence of the words that I say.
When your legacy is fleeting,
as mine is,
you strive for the strength to last,
to be permanent.
Reach into me, scour me for my soul, throw it up against the wall,
rape it.
Powerless, vulnerable, submissive is my soul.
Offering, willingly, hoping it may not hurt. Though it always hurts.
I know I will never escape.
Though achy and sad, I am free in the throes.
I let go of who I am and forget that it's me.
Letting go of myself and my life and my problems and my joy and my pain and my worries and my sorrows and my dreams and my fears and my feelings and my thoughts and my colors and myself and becoming nothing.
I love being nothing.
When I’m nothing I don’t have to be anything ever again.
Lonely nonexistence is my favorite pastime.
The pencils are loose,
they've been set free.
Oh, what a beautiful world it should be,
where the pencils are free,
we can write what we want.
But oh, how abused is this power we've got.
Bullied into a box,
await the pins and needles.
Crammed into asylums,
wait for promised pain.
Tomorrow never comes
when sunlight means salvation.
Yesterday is a myth
with memories of peace.
