Mortality means that you can **** my body
With unlimited weapons.
Nature. Technology. Man.
All would end me
In minutes
In seconds.
Living is dangerous;
I can die just trying to survive
Without even recognizing my struggle.

In a sense, I am the least powerful thing in existence.
I am slowly rotting away as I write...

Nothing can stop it
And that is the beauty
And the cost
Of being human.
That is the beauty and the cost of being free.

I am empty.
People can only prove they exist
By having relationships with others.
If no one knows who you are, then you aren't.
I called my lover.
We had nothing to say.
The phone felt fragile in my hands
But maybe it was just our words that made it feel so.
I called my mother
She rushed me off
Shallow words filling the scurried silence.

If my strongest relationship are this tenuous,
How can my existence not be?

You sicken me.
That wasn't even a real compliment.
She said you did a job well
That a monkey could do just as well.
You are pathetic.
Don't get that disgusting
Gleam
In your eye
Just because of a positive acknowledgement.
You are like a puppy
Whose master called it a good boy
For finding a stick in an empty yard.
You are reliant.
Desperate.
Pathetic.

You don't deserve anything.

He must have a sensor.
A sensor that can tell
When I'm low
And when I feel like nothing.
He has a magic light
That comes on in his ship
That shows him when I'm vulnerable.

This happens way too often to be coincidence.

A cliche group of young adults
Sit around a badly-furnished living room.
One by one they go around the room
And express their (completely valid)
Insecurities
Over the future.
Four people
All paying tens of thousands of dollars
For a piece of paper
That may or may not even be useful.
Journalism. English. Farming...
All hoping to join
Various dying industries.
All being fully aware
That the jobs they want
Likely won't exist in five years.

All not knowing what to do.
Follow your dream
(Which is likely dying)
Or switch majors.
Turn the last two years
And the last forty thousand thousand dollars
Into a waste.

I could shun my English degree
Repress my hopes
(Which are now, at the most, three-quarters hearted)
Of becoming an editor
And becoming someone to help the world
Become more focused on literature.

I could be a nurse
Do as my mother did.
It's hard
Much harder than sitting and reading
For hours on end
But I could do it.
I could help people
And always be guaranteed a job...
I could not be useless.

Dreams or realities?

My words have started leaking out like a virus.
They are meant for the page
Some just for my head
But they leak out
Sneak out
And pop up in conversation.
Strange phrases
And extravagant diction
Creep into my daily life.

Soon they'll send me to the nuthouse.

I imagine
Clumsy kisses
And sloppy makeouts
If you were here.
We'd stumble to the bed
A single mass of flesh and cloth
And fumble around
For minutes.
We'd soon pull together
Via a team effort
Allow two to join as one.
Our teeth would probably hit
My lips wild run down your face.
Your motions would make me queasy.
Soon enough you'd explode
Or ooze out
(I've yet to see what alcohol consumption
Does to ***** production )
And inch out
Clumsy smile on your face.
And we'd both pass out
In a heap of drunken comfort.