Parents of America, free your children!
Whether it be your gorgeous son,
or your rugged daughter,
or your son who isn’t quite sure
if she was meant to be your daughter.
Beat down the barrier with a baseball bat
made of tea sets and doll houses.
Don’t let a book tell you how to live your life.
Don’t let a book tell you how they should live theirs.
You are just as lost as they are
when they emerge from their bloodied cocoon.
So do not try to pave a road
when you don’t know what a road is made of,
because when your parent told you it was cement
they shouldn't have lied, and told you it was sentiment.

I was promised alcohol and women,
at least that’s what Hollywood said.
To think my hair would leave me,
my palm, as sweaty as it was when I was 13,
and my bed as empty as when I was born.

I lived so peacefully
orbiting around your lustrous gaze
not a single fear in the world.
Then you shone bright and inhaled
dragging me in until I couldn't hold on.
I spiraled out of control and began to enter you.
Tearing me bit by bit
piece by piece
I had become a husk of my previous self.
Slowly crumbling away I realized
“This is love.”

We found ourselves,
put out in the world, alone.
Minds made of burnished iron,
Our souls made of crashing waves
echoing through lava tunnels
trying to burrow up into the soft soil.
The ocean tearing Pangea apart
until it was dissected, piece by piece,
like a neglected puzzle.
But we cannot forget what was real
and we cannot lose our past
like a dog starved and beaten
it will hunt us with no remorse.

Rafflesia god,
nestled deep inside my skull,
Friend to my hatred.

Full of hell I am
scorched by brimstone. I
am blackened again.

Unable to leave
my bed of molten flames
static blankets me.

I lie here hoping
that you will burn out some day,
Rafflesia god.

Flames crawl inside
searching for your ugly face
but no face to find.

picking up the phone and dialing your number from memory
tapping on the beaming LED screen in my blackened and frigid room
it sends me into a lycanthropic frenzy
I shed the skin of a plagued, maddened hermit and
mutate into a gregarious, fluttery seraphim
when your “hello” melts through the receiver to greet me
it makes Annie Clark sound like a rattled wasp nest
when I pace around my room, telling you about my day
I feel like I’m weaving adventures together just to feel your warmth
through the phone pressed against my oily cheek
the clock whirlpools helplessly trying to figure out the time
as if it had got caught up in our banter and forgot about its job
but even if the clock can’t set the time straight, the sun does
when it creeps its ugly head above the horizon, I hear a mumble
then a quiet “go to bed” and a “goodnight”
and I shrivel back into the saddened lunatic I once was