Such powerful emotions on a Monday morning
Becoming nostalgic to music I don't listen to
Remembering the girl that was my angel
But has since become angelic no longer
I feel wide awake in a sleepless generation
I feel lost in a generation where there is new meaning in finding oneself

At 10:08 am you don't truly comprehend how much you actually slept
My eyes are heavy though I have been awake for hours
At 10:09 am you think to remind yourself that you aren't the only soul experiencing a downward spiral
The only true crime in America is getting caught
The only true sin in America is minding your own business
But if your skin is light enough and your list of friends is big enough then ****** you can get away with anything

I have never been so angry with my personal life that I've punched a wall
I have yet to be so angry with the political world that I've thrown a brick through a window
But somewhere in America walls are being punched and bricks are being thrown and God bless all the punchers and throwers
Yes you say there are "better ways of dealing with your emotions"
But your treatment plan doesn't work for everyone
Some people meditate to deal with stress
Others make holes in dry wall and from what I have heard both ways work

I ask myself at 10:14 if I really want to get romantic love again
Probably not I tell myself
At least not soon
Romantic love and ****** love are mostly lost on me and I turn my love to friends, family, and animals like the birds outside my window
And when I say I love America I don't mean the government
In America we draw too thin of a line between protest and disrespect
Politics is always violent because people are violent
And you can't change the natural tendency people anymore than you can change the rotation of the earth

So next time you get so frustrated with the lack of justice, compassion or another buzz word that goes with being a decent person
And there is nothing better for you to do than punch a wall
Think of me
Because no matter what
I'm rooting for you

Chocolate colored Toms, Cool Blue and Navy, too,
North Face jacket, give me some individuality
I wanna feel ethereal; violently, annoyingly
happy. But the sky is as black as lonely cancer
without a soul mate; I know what it's like
to kiss as you erase her.

Hauntingly, melancholic instances ingrained
into my gelatin mind and
stayed.
And the smolder
from the brand on my shoulder
frayed.
I wish I could alter my reflection,
but the mirror I've bought,
somebody else
made.

White american men with
gold retriever dogs
smoke black hatred,
not recognizing a grey smog.
Scared of black, brown --
all atheists are ill --
but not afraid of greenbacks
or guys named Bill.

Okay.

Here's your day job. Here's your pay, Bob.
America the great.
If terrorists equal Muslim
then Christians equal hate.

You say it's not victimization.
You say it's not a hunt.
You say it's not intimidation,
but sometimes I think you
see people as witches, ****.

Christ is the answer, indeed.
Without Him we're all lost
and our souls will never be freed.
Like tears frozen in the frost.
Bibles, crucifixes to fix the diseased mind.
How much does a prayer have to cost
to be genuinely kind?

Chemtrails stain pages
and bleed as curses.
Gay rights to be denied,
according to bible verses.

Nursery rhymes and cult games,
all in the good old King James.
Archaic and inane,
like an alter sheltered brain.

Here's your day job. Here's your pay, Bob.
Use the check to pay
angels and evangelists.
Protect yourself from ideas,
and buy a white picket fence.

Mass graves breathing,
like beached jellyfish.
Ketchup packet pastels
painting a diner dish.
I sit and imagine
so many things and more.
I smoke ribbons of grey
that dance around
the diner door.

The people move
and have so much to say.
Watch them scurry and hurry
through the invisible day.
The sun's colors bounce off
weekly washed windows.
And I suffer from the certainty
that my fulfilled dreams
will fulfill me,
as I flick ashes into the world
for the wind to carry away,
dragging shadows.

At first I did love you,
but then the rain caught up.
Always thinking of you,
laying dormant on your crest.
To drink until you blurred,
until as velvet as the mist.

When I grow up, I'll be cool.
Smoke until my lungs float.
Drink until my body's a pool.
Think of people with three felonies,
singing the same penitiary melodies.
Think of girls that said no,
love that diminishes
while a fetus grows.

I'll think of my dad growing up
under a different circumstance.
Think if my mom could hear,
she'd probably like to dance.
Think of my grandpa and my brother,
one isolating, one with too much love--
I wish it'd smother
me, under a Christmas tree,
whispering, 'I wish I could give more,
but all I have is me.'

At first I did love you,
but the frame spills metal guts.
Always thinking of you,
the way your eyes, wide shut.
To think of a turn,
I watched it blur,
the glass shattered.
The paramedics mimicked me,
lifting me up,
'What's the matter?'

When I grow up, I'll be dope.
Find a nice blond and maybe elope.
Shake into her what was stirred into me,
and tell her not to mistake it for chemistry.
And bleed no more, so she doesn't believe,
that there used to be a weaker me,
but it's hard to control a certain circumstance--
like, what if my mom wished to dance?

Ashland is a small town
on a small planet, in an
ever expanding universe.
The people here are bitter
and so is their spit, from
full-flavored cigarettes
and diluted kisses spun
from the lips of significant
others, that didn't listen to their
mothers, and married because of
irresponsible reasons, like personality,
respect, love, and other, 'Jesus, **** me
the **** now, so help me.'

Abstract thought is dangerous--
to the mind it's cancerous.
Alone and thinking about
melancholy shaped memories or
kisses that would echo through
your lungs, stomach, ******* soul.
Don't do it. Don't you invite the devil,
killing yourself is so concrete, it must
mean more than a concrete floor,
hovering above a rumored hell and a
definite uncertainty so delicate that it
eats into you with its sensitive meandering
disguised as beauty but, really, a violent,
violent, murderous host, hoax, fake but
eating your superficiality, programmed by
someone else, telling you it's you.

Ashland is a small town,
aren't we all a small town, inwardly.

Her eyes are like a bowl of cereal:
swirled with sweetness, soft but cold.
She lays in the center of a cobblestone intersection,
as tires bounce like knuckles off of teeth.
And ruby ribbons run from her mouth,
heading down the street that breathes south.
The sky above her stretches like notes from a guitar,
spitting acid rain tunes that'll turn into the pitter patter of a musical monsoon,
washing her body away from my sight and yours,
cleansed from our memories and the city floors.