Though I can find and buy the perfect glass to fit my fingers while I relish in the past regrets that linger in a shape that's vague enough to haunt me for the rest of my days,
I still can't help but wonder if all of it was just a vain attempt at trying to live a life that's been prescribed.
I mean, in the commercially acceptable sense.
I mean, in the romantically cinematic glimpse of what romance is supposed to be.

You know, heavy breathing and sepia tones.

What is it about hearing people having *** in an adjacent room that makes me feel at the same time both incredibly alive and also incredibly alone?

Let us dethrone this ***** little clone,
put him back in the barn where he belongs;
next to the other dozen standalone stepping
stones collectively gathering dust to the dome.

A collection of crazies chasing overblown
daisies in a field of belated phrases. Like,
"Three lines should get you going, Homie!"
(I love you)
how about
(NO! *******)

Where's your patience? Did you check the back pages?
What's a death race without 1st place?
It's death before dishonor or have you already forgotten?
All we ever wanted was to flagpole our importance.


Crusading sapiens stay pounding their chest
while these invading aliens blend in with the rest
and I'm two pills past drunk waiting for the pending
blimp on your radar to changeling into a Death Star.

Don't hold your breath
replace that fresh air in your chest
with a grotesque amount of stress
so when they see you they see death
I've been banging my head against
their picket white fences ever since
I broke free from house arrest and
found myself floundering around
this Barnes test like the little lost octopus
who finally found his pit of vantablack
Long live the oppressed, the second guessers
buried in the eagles nest waiting to hatch