Everyone whom surrounds me,
seems to be a ******* simpleton.

I'm looked down on and people actually believe that I'M the stupid one,
Stupid because of my views on dogmatic religion like Christianity.
Stupid because I won't watch my mouth around those I don't respect.
Stupid because I've done a lot of drugs that have left holes in my brain.

The funny thing is, I may have holes in my brain, I may be completely ******* fried, I may have different views, and a ***** mouth.
Yet I'm still a lot smarter than the dumb ***** around me who are still living underneath their blankets, hiding from all the monsters roam and disguise themselves as everything they love.

My brain is a factory,
producing every toxic part of me.
******* until my hand gets lazy,
fantasizing about Lexi Belle
and being Martin Scorsese.

My blood is a vacuum,
alone in a crowded room;
my white blood cells like to
travel to my *****,
so I can someday infect
designer uterine walls.

Locked and loaded,
my heart exploded.
The tissue and issues
attracted crocodiles
that swam from the mall,
for miles and miles.

Store-bought baby, my body isn't ready,
to be stripped down to the bone,
and sold to teenage radios,
that'll broadcast my American moans.

Caucasian nightmare:
my skin is not fair.
Peel enough off with chemicals,
until I decide there's no more,
and hide the layers in bathroom stalls,
located in the bleach of Baltimore.

your heart
the only altar
I can kneel to

To move through genealogies
consider what it takes
The blood of those before
you filled with all of their mistakes
And what you've given into will uncover how you came
A sort of inquisition to eradicate your name
I called myself "the others" if I staggered or destroyed
Made everything inside of me
so purposely devoid
If not by my own doing
then by those whom I had known
To whom I was connected, thought, believed I could call home
Today's a separation
I have never known before
Or one that I'd forgotten
since I leveled with the floor
There's nothing on the bottom but I cannot seem to look
Much further than the dirt of earth, the silver that I took
The people are in pieces
and my head tries to compare
So often I can only find
the source of our despair
I go to bed in cycles
I can barely seem to keep
Awake so long I wait for dreams
to make me fall asleep
If anyone can see me or engage my busy head
I'll breathe before I speak again, let life be what is said

quiet
restless
stirred by words
that poke between ribs
filled to the brim
with resentment
what does happiness taste like?

is it sweet?
or is it bitter, like a low realization
that you get what you pay for
time spent
money wasted

the present reality
or the parallel universe
where everything you wanted
exists

who am i?

She was more than art.
She felt more than art.
There was beauty in her soul.
And yet, she never realised that.