What am I?
A thinker, or a faker?
Are my words ever thought out?
Am I ever not doubting myself?

I feel like an imbecile, as all the people around me say; yet
at the same time, there are a few who see an intelligence beneath the parachute blanket wave.

So who is right? The teachers who believe in me or
the people who look down on me?

I wonder if they would be surprised if one day they found that I, the town's idiot; the teenager all the other's were told to stay away from, made something of myself.

I wonder if their opinions of me will have an impact at all.

I think I take them too seriously sometimes.
It's like they forget where they are;
conditioned to sit and wait for death.
Is it my fault I can't be alarmed?

I think it's my fault I pay little attention.
I think it's my fault they are confused,
but is it my fault they hate me?
I think that's up to them; to you.

But don't look for a pattern, because there isn't one.
Don't look for a rhyme scheme, or iambic pentameter,
or any of that nonsense.

Just as the people who judge me look, and then look away, I've written this poem to convey;  literally nothing. Besides the point. Literally nothing.

If you could ever use your brains, little town somewhere North, you would've realized long ago that you were the monument to weirdness, to solitude and idiocy; you were all a part of the plan.

As painful as it sounds to be left behind, now you'll know how it feels.

To the rich who blindly ignore, to the poor who blindly trust, I bid you farewell.

Thank God, in the movement of my feet I trust.

I am not like my Mother.
A liar, a cheat, who steals from my Father.

Yet I am not like my Father.
A manipulator, an angry man who enables my Mother.

But still I catch myself doing the same little things they do.
The lying, the anger, it all builds up. And now I can't come clean.

I love the thought of being selfless, but my every motive no matter what screams "what may I receive?"

I love the thought of being loved, especially.
But who would love a liar? A cheat? An angry man?

Well, I would.
I love myself and all my flaws because I know
one day I will drain them from me and I will
be at peace with the world and all these words; like forgotten
notes on a sheet of paper stuffed far out of reach.

I've realized in the last year:
My problems are nothing compared to the world's.
My heartache is nothing compared to the world's.
And lastly, my kindness and sincerity is what makes me feel complete. I couldn't bear to live in a world where everyone was as big an ******* as me.

Or rather, the ******* I used to be.

You all liked my friend
more than me.

How do I put ugly into words?

It is not flowers, for flowers are beautiful!
It is not the reflections of memories,
across the open pond;
along the orange skies,
the fine lines where thought begins
and insanity reigns.
This mentality is a dictatorship; where
the groves of sand sharply contrast the
dense green brush of the forest around
the beach.
No, it is not.

How do I put ugly into words?

Is ugly a condition temporary, or is it
self created-  molded and shaped by the silent
ones, the loners and freaks?
Life would be so much easier born pretty, with a
perfect hairline; what beautiful conversations.
If I was pretty I would never be called bud, or kid.
Although I know those are only things said to wear
me down-   like the rocks beneath a stream, until I
am too exhausted to fight it, until I succumb to it.

Like the worn mattresses, the cavalcade of them carried down
the street by the flooding water; I'll be worn like this until I die.
It's never me, I'm never chosen to go on those fun looking adventures-  where the water is so blue it hurts your eyes.
I'll never know what the prettiest of them do, or did to get where they are. But I assume because they are pretty it is what carries them far.
I have a new scar, not unlike the one along my back that stings and hurts so badly.
These aren't physical scars, just places I remember being harmed from. Like my small frame, my weak arms, or my hair.
Or my inability to make my words stick,
or my steadily grinding bones, that will
one day fade to **** a few molecules on their way down to Earth.

Maturity loves those who preach it.
Maturity is just knowing when to give up.
Maturity is just knowing when to quit.
And on that note, goodnight. I loved the world until I was old enough to understand that the world-   it hated me.




Or am I just a *******? That's what I fear the most.
I've watched myself lash out at my friends, my family, my girlfriends. Even people I meet by chance along the internet I seem to eventually shove away, as if I can't help myself. As if I was destined to be feared, and for people to run away from.

There is no sound greater than the horns,
that shake the very ground of our earth.
As once again a slight crown of thorns
has uprooted the Christian world in mirth.

I can't believe I'm stuck in the mud.
The bipolar death throw is renewed.
The pastor's words fall like rain; a thud
again, like last year, I am construed.

what's the point in writing anymore?
All my voice will do is slowly fall,
to a whisper, a feather to the floor,
my speechless soul is lashing out a call.

I point my gaze unto upper saints:
"What life is it where the cell paints?"

I scour over the memories- pictures on the floor.
Some 35mm, some 600, a few digital printed on paper;
all languages I have known.

I take my time writing them out for myself,
the dates, as I rip them and throw them away. I think I used
to be someone else.

Like, the kind of person that would laugh at other's struggles
with humanity. Saying all the while, "Your problems are nothing compared to mine!" while I became increasingly bitter.

I don't like riding this blurred line,
I hope you never cried.
But I would never say it out loud.

No, I'll keep that to myself.
And all these moments afterwards,
where I see the speckled clouds behind my
screen; reflections of a time I remember a year ago.

So loud is the thundering,
though the clouds are white.

I go on walks, not for myself but in spite of others.
I lay in the basement for hours, reading and lifting not for myself,
but for the fame that I am delusioned by.
I go on walks,
I lay in the basement for hours.

I would never hit a woman, but I'll surely creep one or a few out.
I would never ****-
I would never hit a woman.
I would never **** anything other than myself.

Tis the one act I shall do for myself, and in death let it be known
the birds and flowers that blossom in Spring are Christopher Marlowe, and I am Shakespeare.

Sometimes it's hard to walk.
Like I've tied both laces together,
with my shuffling steps echoing
down the hall.

There was a time-   the echo
was in four, not two. Bravely
together, I remember fighting
back the feeling.

Then the preacher came,
told us words; shoved them
down our throats. Dragged
you into fake lights.

I resisted, I knew what they
could do to us; would do to
us. But you never listened
to me. You were a loner-  a
rebel like your Mother.

It's a weird, weird world; passion
means nothing in the mire. When you
think you've flown out, into auburn lit
skies and towards better days; the rope
reaches as far as it can extend, and you must watch
yourself hang above the streetlights, and below the stars.

You can scream, "But I love her" as loud
as lungs can carry. You could give a final
death throw, like a horse that has been shot
twitching in the dirt. But it would be so much
easier, so much better to numb the pain.

You can scream, "And I love her" as loud
as a semi barreling past; but you know, like
fire it comes to flicker until it burns low. It
would be so much easier, so much less chaotic to
extinguish the candle.

But then you wouldn't be a rebel, like your Mother.