i see the flyer at starbucks

"are you caucasian?
without mental health
and drug problems?"

wow
i don’t know the answer to any of these questions
is a jew a caucasian?
is the occasional naked, ****-slamming drunken rampage
a drug problem?
as for mental health
i’m a deadbeat poet and unpopular pop musician
i’ve got a job fighting death and boredom
and i just changed my facebook password to "eat ****"
my frustrations have driven weaker souls to homicide
but are these PROBLEMS?

I'm not sick
but I'm bleeding just the same
I'm not forgotten
but I can't remember my name
I carry a bag of stones
taken from my kidney in claim
I look down on my feet
no feet but guns and they take aim

I look up at the sky
no sky but tree crowns so dense
in front of me, as far as eyes can see
are waves and they build a fence
Faces from within look at me confused
muffled voices tell me I shall be reduced
Just me, my guns and my kidney stones
but I refused

I fell into a pit that looked like my face
They made me swallow my stones
Waking up inside a maze
I think these are my bones

Am I dead
or just insane
my guns are wet
is it all in vain
I regurgitate the stones they fed
spit out blood, the taste got plain

The maze of bones stands aflame
I dry in the heat
I hear a click, my feet to blame
I look down and pang!, I smell burning meat
I open my eyes, push through the frame
only a dream, I'm on the edge of my seat
Looking in the mirror, I fear this isn't the end of this game
I see the bag of stones and my reflection says "repeat".

Do you laugh with amphibians,
share the secrets snails whisper
in the dark?
Are your fingers long and slender?

Come, don't wait.
Tomorrow may be too late.

Send me tiny spiders
crawling over my skin like eyes.
Send me dry-skinned snakes,
blind, I will make them see.
Send me your name,
send me your number.

Receive in reply
coyote murmurs,
the lingering smile of a turtle,
possum probabilities.

I am crystal:
the molten river flows
I cannot shatter
I will not bend
The gods have touched me
illuminated my countenance
with the fires of ten thousand furnaces
No waters will ever extinguish their flames

I am crystal:
at the center a translucent
nothingness
shatters the solid light
and shivers off
rainbows

Overly emotional
strangely proportional
partly suboptimal
highly improbable

Easily
devided
by truth and anger
and all that subsided

I'm trying
I'm hiding
Bad at denying
I need to feel
I need to scream
mostly defying
the urge to break
the urge to destroy
to disappear, to dissolve
I might be lying

To myself
to myself
My need for leaving or staying
is always unmet
with internal bleeding
my thoughts are paying
and these monsters
in my head
keep eating
Did I really put them there
myself?
Or did it happen back
when I was twelve?

I hear you
but your breath is so cold
I wanted to believe
in anything but you
But I think we got too old
and the house
my heart grew in
has long been sold

And when I'm drinking
you get angry
but what should I do?
My thoughts feel so scattered
and you can't pull me through

I'm trying
I'm fighting
Bad at denying
I need to feel
I need to dream
mostly defying
the urge to fake
the urge to decoy
to reappear, to resolve
I might be lying

to myself

It's a wide open art,
from the start.
Rules are for schools.
Dont fret em,
forget em.
So
Relax with a syntax,
clown around,
with a pronoun.
Squeeze the ******,
of a dangling participle.

Free flying like geese,
creative words release,
make it up if you please.
Example--the plural of mice is meese.

Flowery language isn't the exclusive domain of the professional writer, it's for everyone!
To continue then,
about the writers pen.
No write or wrong,
nothings too short or long.
Mangled,
bungled,
butchered,
bumbled, don't matter.
We don't need a librarian to admire what we have done.

Words aren't hard,
fling them unbarred.
It's not arithmetic,
or teaching a cat a trick.
Crunch them uniting,
mix them combining.
Fling them,
meld them,
Verb them,
sell them.
We don't need a New York Times best seller to enjoy the art of writing.

Uncrate it,
create it.
Use it,
and abuse it.
Don't bar us
from a thesaurus
Or a dictionary.
The spiel
is to write real
tell the tale
seal the deal.
WORD HATERS live in the town called Fictionary.