Self-cut ginger locks that ooze pretension
pontificating so bluntly about "Cinema"
He buys Sociology textbooks at GoodWill,
TL;DR,
but they look good on a dusty shelf
don't they?

Mocking potential reactions to his
apparent ignorance.

A stoner who has never been high,
An existentialist who has never known what it is to die
A stargazer who has never seen the sky,
Highly expectant yet always refuses to try.

Ridicules what he doesn't understand
Taste so bland,
could swear he was conceived by the
FDA in a public school kitchen.

My eyes are bloodshot,
Im drunk with knowledge,
Stumbling home in the darkness of morning,
Dramamine floating on through my ears,
senses dulled
my worn feet drag me toward my home.

Beyond comprehension
Beyond any sort of caring
High on apathy, I'm jaded beyond myself.
Accomplishments only open doors to criticism
to further my cynicism.
My sight is dry from ebony text on manila pages,
and LED lights.

I trudge in the quiet of the small town night,
no one was a awake and light was foreign
the only sight allowed was held hostage by the sickly
orange streetlights that depressed me more than
the situation itself.

Home.
Bathroom.
Bed.
Rest.

The crippling clarity of Minnesota winter hit me
in mid September,
A remnant of a scent
in late November.
I tore the page of memory from a book
the tale of my humanity
and the presence of my essence.
I grappled with the meaning and had felt my self leaning
toward the present not the past.
But context had abandoned me
in my pursuit of memory
and I had but a scent and a feeling
that of course Came and Went.

Every sense
that convalesced from
periods of nonstop work
and errant stress
yet as I progress I assuredly digress
to feeling nothing
in the moments that I live
and so passionately limp
To grasp at the past.
To tear another sentence from the volume
recounting my presence
would be a sentence to
the depths of my mind,
trapping me inside.

To live on the navy stained couch of mine
recounting mounting feelings of past space and time
of crisp november newly fallen snow
of sidewalks chalked
with mysteries of the past tense of ***
of cats and dogs
living in harmony
of men, women, children
sipping herbal tea,
reaching for all this on my navy couch
would be a curse to me.

But I live for these moments that sweep me off my feet,
that hit me like a train of emotion and feeling
to bring me out of reality and back to what once was.
a little...history.

Uplifted from within my own
empty cavity of
jaded teen angst and apathy
apropos of nothing
but pure want for something.

It isn't something that strikes
my nerves.
But the nothing that hits me after
like a train that provides stimulant
more twisted than any cut *******.

I seek through this
nothing.
Beyond
for Something but
not anything, it cannot be anything
else I would have Everything.

And I don't want everything
I want something.
But more likely than not,
that illusion, expectation, prediction of
something.
Dwindles down to nothing.

And still my synapse fire like
glistening pistons, kicking up passion
and biblical transgression
to steal their eye
and upon the apex of this nervous mess
and on the back of what I want to see
I see nothing and fail my own sense of
Anticipation.
And again I am left tense and uneasy

Walking alone. Trying to seek my something
always finding nothing.

Constant understanding that
holds my mouth ajar.
reminiscent stars tangle with words like
"How" and "are"
tangled, mangled, strangled with that
Transylvanian tongue.

Straightened teeth bore with smile.
Oh, how the world has waited for such.
Lovely questions of impaling rulers
drinking blood
and vernacular across Carpathian
Hungarian
store owners.

Polski #1 says beautiful,
Polski #2 asks for no answer,
Orthodox Orthodontia
and Ignorance taint this experience
however lovely it may seem.

Cold is the only embrace
shaking hands struggle to write
every letter of every word presents one
good fight.
Tooth and Nail.

Glances glance eyes,
golden demise of any sort of
inside.

A perfect scowl.