the light in the women's
bathroom stays on, always
24 hours a day

why is it never
safe to be a woman?

Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes travel
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here;
And the windows flock open
And the curtains fly out like doves
And a past dries in a wind.

Now let me lie down, under
A wide-branched indifference,
Shovel-faces like pennies
Down the back of the mind,
Find voices coined to
An argot of motor-horns,
And let the cluttered-up houses
Keep their thick lives to themselves.

For this ignorance of me
Seems a kind of innocence.
Fast enough I shall wound it:
Let me breathe till then
Its milk-aired Eden,
Till my own life impound it-
Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft,
A style of dying only.

I grow to despise all
which bring tears to my eyes

it's happened too many times now

I want nothing but your nonexistence
no happiness or sadness

just nothingness

I want apathy, I want disinterest
I want permanently handicapped empathy

I'll get there eventually

I'm losing faith that there's such
thing as hope, or faith for that matter

it's all drab around here, really

I try to pacify my bitterness
but my bitterness pacifies me

I'm taunted by the irony

I've lost count of the times
I've been made to feel so foolish

I'm getting used to being embarrassed

All you well-to-do women
with whatever is in your head

Keep respectable distance

your energy is better spent
on one who won't slowly with time

unravel at your feet

I can agree there's a lot to
hate about those who you pity

the ones who feel as I do

you see them vulnerable and
you feel in control and powerful

it disgusts you that you had no choice

you'll soon loathe as I do
and your niceness will be tarnished

I'll loathe all even more

I feel no sensations other than
some exhausted discontent

it becomes your true companion

I welcome it all at this point
there's no point to finding a point

maliciousness just exists, I guess

you or I are no exception
I know I'm feeling quite awful

I want to share my suffering

but it's for me and only me
my one and only property

my holy suffering

I'll carry it with me
exclusively

I cannot be one with this world
I won't adhere to what it requires
It shall be forced to my own will,
or I will exile myself willingly

with my suffering,
in pursuit of the only thing
I am truly entitled to

the bitterness is debilitating
and normally i'd fix that
with my writing but it's
writing that is making me
more bitter about it all

it isn't easy being a fraud
desperate for a place
longing for a practice
a hobby or whatever else

i look upon approving audience
when i dream, when i dream
i am accepted as a poet
separate from paralyzing falsities

but when i write i'm just a number
a broad categorization of where
my "art" is aimed
i sound like so many others that
sound so much like myself

will i ever transcend my
limitations? will there ever be
depth to what i have to share?

i don't change lives i just change minds

when i write i'm just a number