It must've been that odd mushroom:
Its pungent spewed spores have made me
A fungal all-fours beast of gloom.
It couldn't have been my own brain:
So toxic, rotten, and seeping
Out meanness, spreading all the same.
Infected, that's why I'm absolved
From sinful guilty reflections,
It was them, not me, that mushroom.
Cordyceps are small yellow fungi that infect insects and other fungi, turning them into mindless zombies that spread the infection until it eats its host.
If I fail this test... well I don't know...
Perhaps I'll drop out of school and walk
Thousands of miles to start a new life
Where things are easy and nice and sweet
Like spoonfuls of sugar for mouth-bleeds.
Or maybe I'll tug my hoodie tight
And hibernate in my mobile cave,
Soundproof from the shuffling strangers there,
Because behind the walls of my mind
All I need are daydreams of springtime.
Or I might borrow a better brain
From a friend who knows a lot of things
Like how to laugh right or calculate
The speed as Train A, Train B collide.
Yeah, I think that plan would work out fine.
Unless... unless I manage to pass.
But that's just a silly thought to have.
Laying under the feather tree,
Breathing scents of serenity,
Soft down feathers come falling down
And swaddle me on fuzzy ground.
I'm fast asleep in memories
Of all the things I haven't seen,
As I stay by the feather tree.
? ! ~
$ & @
- - -
… ? ¶
One two one two melatonin pieces will do
In my warm cocoon
A bumbling butterfly
Stumbling through the night
In search of warm dreams
Can't find them anywhere
No matter how hard I try to fall asleep
((view horizontally on the phone))
I graph, sighs
was cosine up down, and
a and laughs.
slowing peaks troughs
So we found some green pine cones
with black spindles poking out
and a funny, fuzzy fur.
When we pulled apart the scales,
a pungent Christmas smell
wafted from its fruity core.
Speculations ran amok
until we recognized an
a ball in roses
too scared the thorns will catch me
so i leave it there
A recurrent dream I commandeered
It softly responds, “No need to yell.”
I am a revolutionary who lies in bed!
Leading the abused within my head,
I smelt their shackles into gleaming swords
The sort you see in dreams of course.
But why stop there? I am a philosopher
Taught the finest shadows in Plato’s cave,
A misanthrope who loves to post all the ways
I’d change the world if I were awake.
An artist who only writes self-deprecation
Instead of showing an ounce of creative dedication.
I am an arsonist who lights my own home
Just to keep warm and the night well shone
And with everything ablaze I always feel like I’m alone.
Perhaps, I should admit it could be, just maybe,
I hide the same problems everyone else has behind a fantasy
And instead I should accept I am just a boy lying in bed.
Goodnight fellow arsonists!
I swear Ghosts are real!
What else could keep me
In bed all day?
There was a man masquerading as me,
But I caught him by the collar
And wrenched him out!
No wrongs to right, no lost love to mourn,
I must concoct an awful lot of falsified accounts.
But why should I neglect my life,
For self-burnt homes and hidden doubts?
I found company in my solitude.
Madame Silence gives the best kisses,
Even when I hear muffled melodies.
if i kissed you soft enough
would you share with me your love?
if I fall in love again
will you stay and do the same?
Look here! No here!
Buy me! Want me! Use me!
Don’t you see? I make you happy!
Post. Scroll. Feed.
Dig. Carve. Feast!
Smiles. *******. Wealth. ***.
For you we only want the best!
Watch your friends. Watch your fans.
Watch someone you’ll never know.
No! Here! COME AND SEE!
I am a poem etched onto pulped-up trees,
Or did wandering taps on keyboard keys release me?
Or had it been rushed, late night confessions
That tore my shackles off and torched inhibitions?
Regardless, I’ll hold you. Down hallways or in bed,
I’ll shield your burnt soul from the fire in your head,
And if you’re out of breath—beaten, bruised, tossed aside—
You can find reprieve in between my lines.
I am the poem you press against your chest,
And to your scrawled thoughts and poured dreams I attest.
My neck aches from testing
And staying up all night
To brand numbers on my skin
Calloused from pens held tight
It's when you blush, my heart explodes
Maybe because, the things I know
Like how I love to hear your laugh
Or how I want to make this last.
Maybe it's how you look at me
Or how you sound when you're sleepy
Could be our laughs laying in bed
Or just the way your nose turns red.
I missed your voice and sharing songs
And looking at the calm blue dawn
Or it might be - I'm glad to say -
How this feels right in every way.
I am writing these words in an empty notebook
On a warm, humid, mid-summer morning,
Masked by the speckled shade of my tree's canopy.
My dog stands beside me
His paws among the crisp grass
Covered by dew and red fallen petals.
From across the lake in front of me,
there are birds sending eloquent songs
On a journey across the placid waters;
Above me is a juvenile blue-jay,
Still without its royal blue crest,
which has made this its home.
This beautiful scene I am immersed in,
Gorgeous like a painting still drying,
Its wet paint glistening,
Has become my home.
Oh, how I yearn to write words that matter!
How I prayed to a god made deaf by mournful echos.
Oh, how I type away into this keyboard diligently,
Attempting to justify this rotting mind of mine.
These words have no meaning behind them,
And yet I march on and try to defy sense!
Oh, how I crave to be significant and something
More than just the invisible speck I am!
Oh, how I write these words attempting to uncover
Some truth that had never even sprouted.
These words are my only testimony to you, my friend,
And utter again - I beg - the soul it tried to mend!
I dropped your heart
That night it fell.
Please pick it up
And say you’re well.
This day lacks
A flower surrounded by mud
Dirt, meet Flower
A bird perched on my chest last night.
You should have seen me jolt awake,
How it remained so near my face!
I stared at its gem blue, stained red.
Yet when I touched its bloodied plume,
A storm of black consumed my room.
With lightning’s strike I could perceive
Sweet-scented subversive coffee
Among French dreams of Liberty
Followed by sounds of clashing arms
Between brothers of blue and gray
Over the fate of the enslaved.
At once I felt the long struggle of
Tenant farmers now freed from lords,
Working mothers who dream of more.
My child ached from days of work.
His stomach starved because the Board
Deemed him something they can’t afford.
Too much! Too sad! I couldn’t last
A second more, and so I seized
The beast as my new centerpiece.
Such bright feathers but such a bore,
Now gawk with me and wine some more.
Sun hot touch
Free of sin
Young love is
— The End —