It is not attention that I want
Nor attention that I crave
Disdain and pain are not to blame
For the way that I behave
I pantomime the life I want
I advertise the life I own
When inside my deep dark chamber
I find comfort being alone
By myself I still feel joyful
Reading, drinking coffee, or tea
The absence of friends, the feeling of loneliness
Had simply, never occurred to me
Instead I look forward to these solitary rituals
They come with no surprise
I admit I never foresaw
These tendencies becoming my demise
For I grow attached and bound
To my special time on my own
That it is not until I am in the company of friends
That I truly feel alone
A habit turned addiction is to blame for my disease
My loved ones on ground level as I swing from a trapeze
My loved ones all together
My trapeze floating in midair
They laugh and feel at rest
As I hang, alone, up there.

I didn’t believe such a thing could be pure, because the word is so cluttered in itself
Happiness is a cluttered word

It’s cluttered with misconceptions of its meaning: the distortion in between the perfectly round consonants and vowels
You wouldn’t think there’d be much room for a world of misconstrued and sometimes subdued views in the tiny space between the plump “a” and the content “p”

But in the miles of space between the embrace of the letters are worlds of difference
People that think happiness is money, the green scene, living large, party barge credit card charge

Or the people that think happiness is ***, a good blow, heavy petting, get a zoo, pet all the animals you want.

We dig ourselves into a hole where we can’t control this self-filling bowl of “happiness”
For me, happiness is driving in my car at sixty miles an hour while listening to a sweetly soothing Melody Gardot
She sings of blue birds that heard the words of the people below, as I feel the blue birds tell me that it’s okay. I will be okay.

Somehow I soak the sun, though it’s winter and the sun is hiding deep in the soil under the snow that continues to blow even though we’re in Dallas, Texas.
That’s ironic.

I want to create my own society
Forget the one that’s already there
The ideas on the pedestal of that society
Only condone false comparisons, don’t care for the plight of your mothers’ sons
I want to create my own society

I will construct it with the broken words of the ignored
I will mold it with the cries of the deplored
And paint it with the bright colors of the bored
We will stand in lines and sing sweet songs
Finally, no one telling us that we are wrong
I’ll look in the mirror and mutter “I’m beautiful” for the first time in what seems like a century

They did this to me
Heaven, let me be heard
Why does your spirit fill the curves in these angry words
Why have they taught me to loathe my own skin
Begging to peal it all off, steal someone else’s, and start all over again

They have taught me to loathe me, to pinch me, to poke me
They wine me and dine me so someone else will out shine me
They breed the superficial and put them in jars
So they can burn the fuel to make the jewelry, makeup and cars
There is no love of self, there is only more wealth
Reach out for help
Before you too lose yourself

Why can’t I just have both?
Different flavors of the same dream,
Different fabrics with the same seam
Two metals with similar sheen
I suppose I’ll become a get through, I’ll make do
I can’t mold these things I’ve told myself, they’re all laying askew
It is your loving and secretly selfish way
Impress me with the chivalry of King Arthur’s day
The guilt of greed as we hang on each other’s every word
Hide your glances meekly. Think of a way to keep me
We do our devil dance concealed by masks all along
Our innocent love turning into need, need for us both to belong
I receive your Valentines kiss, lost in momentary bliss
I have painted and sculpted myself to act like this
I welcome you to build me up in your mind, and maybe someday I’ll play the part
Until that day I’ll be a slave to the words I see as art.

Tell me I’m brilliant

For the fibers and threads of my mind have recently tattered themselves
Leaving an array of unfinished thoughts and suppressed emotion
Piling up until my worth has been completely displaced
A tower such as I needn’t have limits such as these
However, I have recently become accustomed to the cruel realities of the world
Where everything exists as a number, high or low
Acquiring these numbers prompts man to do back flips, cart wheels, until he knows all he can possibly know
I stand with man on a platter of judgment
Look at me through the glass and assess how transparent my eccentricity is
Whosoever fabricates their lives should be cast out, but how often is this really done?
I stand with a number possibly too small and maybe too outreaching
It all depends on what the powers are teaching
The numbers leave no room for speech or rhythm or character
This is why I choose word as my craft, in hope that everyone can stand on that judgment pillar and feel light upon their shoulders
And breathe slowly into their souls
And say that the world will oblige me, whatever number I hold in my hands

I have not been put in this world to give into such demands.