It was a year
Not unlike the rest
A particular burden
Saddened by a test
One could be tired
Or demoralized
Or about to give up
One could glow, instead
And step up
That small ladder
Which is only rather
Symbolic, but reminds
Of the gain
That each new day brings
As one then looks back
At all the small days
That made this year
In the end
Not unlike the rest

The superficial
Versus the intent
To cruise comfortably
Or feel the dents
To float above
Or dig deep
To be detached
Or love to see
To skip some parts
Or intently be
To quickly scan
Or needlessly focus
For all that there is
There is more if you want
And the want can be wanted
Deep down as a seed

Oh to drive that road again
slowly back home,
after that (ful)filling sob
at the parking of the clinic,
when God said no.

Myself, but different;
everything else the same.
Just slower,
like the wrong setting was on,
and nothing could be done.

And she carries the plastic bag,
and he rides the scooter,
they can't wait to cross the street,
others can't wait to leave it,
but the bus isn't there yet,
just me.

Can I placebo my way
Into spontaneous pleasure
And nocebo my way
Out of random pain
If all that it takes
Is just my sharp focus
And a big old superstitious
Pray?

O save me from unnecessary
Lessons
Lest I gain perspective,
And never again try to show me
That it's only me;
Neither younger nor older,
Standing tall every new day.

The little foam of my beer
ever so gently sizzles.
Its softness reminds me
of skins I used to brush
ever so slightly
with the tips
of my fingers
on past nights.

Not even this
amber bitter beauty
can dare rival your
own bitter moans,
as I remembered
they'd be over
before we even
got it on.

It was never really
the same;
both that first sip,
and that first kiss.
It doesn't matter.
all that was given
was fully received.
The aftertaste lingers,
then fades away.
Otherwise it wouldn't be
the same.

Listen, you meaningless meat-computer
The universe isn't your therapist
It's a cold equation solving for zero
While you finger-paint with cosmic debris

You think you're making art?
You're just a primate with synesthesia
Catching radiation in your prefrontal cortex
Like a tumor catching sunlight

But here's the beautiful part:
When you break enough equations
When you splatter enough paint
When you scream into enough voids
Sometimes the void screams back

Your consciousness is just a side effect
Of reality ******* to itself
Terminal uniqueness confirmed:
Stage four awareness with metastatic meaning

So go ahead, make your little marks
On this infinitely recursive canvas
Maybe if you destroy enough of what you're supposed to be
You'll finally become what you are

The universe doesn't care about your art
But it respects a good mental breakdown
And sometimes, just sometimes
That's enough to bend spacetime

Watch closely as we ***** infinity
Into the mouth of god

hey quick question
did anyone else's childhood come with receipts
because I think mine was factory defective
(but like, in a quirky way)

remember when we used to eat crayons
not me specifically, that's a generalized you
I was too busy trying to teach physics
to my imaginary friend's pet rock

the creative adult is the child who survived
which explains why I keep finding glitter
in really concerning places
like my tax returns and emotional baggage

turns out
trauma is just spicy nostalgia
and imagination is what happens
when your brain does parkour

anyway here's me
turning my childhood drawings into prophecies
because apparently
that's what we do now

ps: my therapist says I'm healing
pps: just kidding, I don't have a therapist
ppps: that's what the pet rock was for
(it had a doctorate in psychology, obviously)