My brain is awash in budding friendships and cephalopods.

I think at this point it's safe to assume that all of my favorite ones are those who develope intelligence on their own, spineless or not.
Less of a social impetus than one of sheer simple survival.
An adaptation to life-threatening and serious impacts.

And the awkwardness invariably involved tends to tickle me various colors.
And the people who judge might as well be a den full of sharks, bodies going taught at the sense of fresh blood.

They can all **** right off.

I'm not the one to see how you'd warn them off. I'm more interested in seeing how you'd react to fun.

What would happen if one of your many limbs reached out towards one of mine?

Would our color-changes clash,
or would they match?
Would we play off each other until a new spawn was hatched?

It took millions of years for us to find the courage to leave our shells.
Now we're out here constantly shifting/adjusting/conforming by ourselves.

Would it really be so crazy for us to occasionally help each other out?

When they say vulnerability is ****,
I always feel awkward about wanting to argue the contrary.

I tell people I'm a hipster before I'll ever admit to being a poet.
Seems like a less pretentious compromise.

I can handle being disliked for my personality-type better than being loathed for my hobbies.

Self-centered hedonism is a good defense mechanism against social awkwardness.

The people who are always so adamant about not giving a **** always trip me up.

If you really didn't, why are you trying so hard to project that narrative?

The people who really don't give a **** are so preoccupied with escapism to even recognize the social consequences.

Those are my people.

My mind filled with cacophony-of things that many never reach you,
A forgotten sweater of your past lover that hides in your bedroom.
I  know I won't last eternally, only as long as the  snowflakes,
As the sun melts its corner, so will my sorrows wash me away.

But amid all my troubles only, if you were to bloom like a rose,
It wouldn't be a God who created you, but you would be his form.

Night people.
lots of windows with light flooding out and no light coming in,

I toss and turn
and try to learn
something, anything,
nothing.

dreams propel me to the sea where I dwell on the movement of ships and time slips away.

What it promises to be is a
long contract in eternity
I think
the universe agrees with me.