Have I got a story for you?
Let me tell you about this pursue
Ms. Piggy and ****** hooked up
They went out on a date
However the Chef suggested that Ms. Piggy should be on a plate
****** explained to the Chef Ms. Piggy was his date
Ms. Piggy responded to the Chef, “Are you sure you can relate as I am Ms. Piggy and you are not Pretty Ricky”
The Chef then dashed away
Ms. Piggy and ****** continued on having their togetherness in say
Ms. Piggy wanted a little wine with her dine
But ****** had something else in mine
Well Ms. Piggy got a little tipsy
She was acting more like the Queen of the Gypsies
Ms. Piggy started drinking out of her shoe
****** felt like Ms. Piggy was turning him into stew
The music was playing and Ms. Piggy demanded a dance
****** wanted to hook up in a romance
Ms. Piggy was so drunk
Her mind must was on stomp
Later Ms. Piggy called ****** a chump
That is when the fight broke out
Ms. Piggy and ****** began to shout
Dancing became in your face
Ms. Piggy’s anger I can’t erase
The whole evening became a date from hell in the trace
Ms. Piggy told ****** she was an important lady
****** shouted, “Only maybe baby”
Ms. Piggy told ****** good-bye
****** went his way in comply.

God ****** God ****** God ****** depression is  a *****, like why TF this **** gotta sneak up on me like this, **** I'mma go to bed and not sleep I guess I'll lay with my lonesome till 3am and listen to my heart beat while I think ignoring the voices in my head telling me things like i’d be better off dead like as if despite  the fact I wish my ticker would stop ticking
But it won't, I wish I could c u t my own heart out with a knife but that's sounds boring so I dont I wish a niger could cry a nigers burdens away  but a.nigg*rs tear ducts are dry so I guess ill roll a joint and burn it away and then when I run out I'll break out the razors is in a slice in a way that will make the sane wonder how but what the **** is it to you who are you to say that I'm important to you who are you to say that I'm a lovely human being just ****.off please, i didn't ask your assistance no offense just leave me to my being because I disagree I wish you would ask me if I thought that I was as important I wish you'd ask me if I thought I was lovely cuz I'd say no I'm autistic trash and to me that **** is ugly cuz despite what I can do I can't do most of it ******* I thought I was a man, well I guess I was born with most of it I just want to ******* die no letter no notes no reasons why cuz I told you when I told you then I told you again did you think that was a lie  you must have presumed that it's a cry for attention are you out of your ******* mind don't worry its okay to make the jokes it doesn't hurt at all it's okay to mock me it doesn't phase a bit,  but I guess you will you  learn to shut your ******* mouth when you find my body its wrist slit  but I guess it's kind of my fault because I smile every time they ask me if I'm fine god ****** god ****** god ****** Depression is a ***** like why the **** this **** got to sneak up on me like this

i dont want to think about you
yet i do
again and again
you swarm through my brain
stinging every little crowded vein
until you take away my sight
taking every little bit of fright
from me
i dont like to speak of you
but i do
youve bought a condo on my tongue
with a clear view of my speech
and i see nothing more through the windows of my eyes
than the back of your head
and it hurts
i dont want to know you.

familiar claws opened
my chest revealing a heart
that only knows how to beat
for him, only for him, for years,
god ****** it has been 3 years
already, ******, ******, ******,
and its pointy nails punctured
my lungs until it deflated entirely, i
cursed as my throat clogged up and
god ****** i can't breathe and his
eyes watched the blood trail from
his hand while mine went blurry
when tears began brimming up
more and more, each tear escaping
my lids and god ****** i can't
believe the only thing i can think
of before i coughed my last breath
was how ******* beautiful he was in
his white t-shirt that remained cleaned

I assured myself again that I was completely alone. Gingerly, I sat on the corner of her popcorn-and-perfume-scented bed and allow my tingling fingers to reach out and open that sacred journal again to page one. I never really understood it but maybe if I read it one more time. “Things I Wish I Never Knew:

1. People are selfish almost always.

2. Shaking hands does matter. ******.

3. Wine hangovers are miserable.

4. Puppies **** behind things ‘cause they feel guilty; you wont find it until it smells.

5. Friends really do come and go.

6. Neti Pots absolutely **** and bring you nosebleeds NOT relief.

7. Attraction and love are different. REMEMBER THIS ABOVE ALL.

8. Joy is clicking add to dictionary in Microsoft word.

9. If you can make it through Taco Bell kisses, morning breath will be a breeze.

10. Be jovial, it’s a choice and a side effect of living in daily adventure.

11. Make sure that your family knows…” I pause because I think I hear footsteps padding up the fourteen red-carpeted steps to her bedroom. I know I can’t move, the old wood floor in this crumbling house will definitely creak and give me away, so I just sit on the edge of the bed at full attention.

        “…No, ma’am, everything’s basically back to normal again, we’re getting the locks changed on Saturday. I’ll tell her you send your love.” The footsteps and voice were at the top of the stairs and I saw a shadow fall across the dusty floor in front of the white wooden door. I know it’s my neighbor Annie because she lives here. We grew up together. “Yes, ma’am, I love you too. I’ll try to make her call you soon. Bye.” Her phone beeped to signal the end of the conversation followed by a loud sigh. I peered from the bed into the hall and saw her sitting on the floor. Annie is a pretty girl. All the girls who live here are. We used to go to school together until my grades got too bad and I started my special school. We used to play in her front yard with her sister, Kelly. One time I kissed Kelly, but we were only seven. She is my only kiss. They both leave for most of the year now to go to college but come home for Christmas break. I will never go to college, but that’s ok.

        I felt my pants vibrating and the theme song to the TV show Who Wants to be a Millionaire was somehow blaring from somewhere around my crotch. Before I could silence it, the shadow at the door became a tangible whirlwind of brown hair, sharp screams, and clawing grabbing fingers as she tried to wrench the ratty Moleskin journal from my fingers.

        “******, Cyril, I thought I heard someone in here. You give it back and get out of this house. You can’t, like, break into other people houses like this. This is just not what normal people do. Can’t your father control you?” At this point we’re both standing in the middle of the bedroom. I’m confused so I just dangle the journal in the air above her grasp. “It’s not yours and you know that. I know you at least understand that, right? Right, Cyril? What the hell would you do if Kelly had been showering or changing. Oh my god, ew, do NOT answer that.”

        “Ow,” I yelp as she scratches at my forearm to retrieve the precious journal. “Your claws are sharp, Annie, I have more scratches from you than I do Jimmy-cat and Jimmy-cat is mean, mean but fluffy… and he purrs but you don’t purr. Is that because you don’t like me?” I lower my arm and Annie snatches the Moleskine out of my fumbling fingers, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I hate it when people do that. I notice it, but they don’t think I do.

            “Cyril, get out.” Her right hand is now securely around the Moleskine and the other is shaking, pointed towards the doorway. “Now.”

            This is always the worst part. I walk out of Kelly’s forbidden bedroom: head hung as I creak down the fourteen red, carpeted stairs and make my way to the front door. It’s always quiet and I don’t like the quiet so whenever it’s quiet I count. I am good at counting. …Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…silence.

        I turn to her, “Annie, I’m sorry…”

            “Out.” She opens the front door and points me to my apartment, directly across the street. Its autumn now and the leaves and cold rustle down the street and I crouch deeper into my black coat as I step outside.

            “So maybe I’ll come over tomorrow?” I turn as I start down the steps, hopeful to have conjured up a smile from Annie, but all I see is the flash of brunette hair disappearing behind another thick, white wooden door.

            “Get off our property before I call the cops, you creep!”

            That’s what I’ve always been to these pretty girls: a creep. I don’t really understand what the word means, but I’m pretty sure from the way they say it that it’s not nice. Pops always tells me that I’m different because it’s better to be different. I don’t understand why Annie and Kelly don’t think it’s better that I’m different too.

            I decide to walk to Captain D’s and tell Earl hi because it’s Friday and that’s what I do on Fridays. Earl owns Captain D’s and has forever. Earl is my friend. Earl and Jimmy-cat at Captain D’s that I feed my left over fish are my friends. At least I think they are. I named the cat Jimmy-cat because Pops says mom used to listen to a man named Jimmy Buffett before she left us. I don’t remember those days.

            I turn the corner knowing Captain D’s is just 560 steps ahead and that to get back home I go 910 steps back and I’ll be at my front door. Counting is one thing I am good at; even the tests they used to make me take at the doctor’s office said so. I am good at numbers. Seven is my favorite number.

            I walk into Captain D’s and, like normal, its just Earl inside. He makes me two Fish-Filet sandwiches and we go stand outside. We usually don’t talk much, but I like that . I sit on the crunchy curb, put on my hood because the wind and leaves have made my ears sting. I unwrap the greasy paper on my first sandwich and Earl pulls out his red Marbolo’s and sits beside me lighting up his first cigarette.

            “Why do you smoke, Earl?” I ask him every Friday and he always responds the same way.

            “Eh. Why do the fish swim Cyril? Why do the Eagles and Crows fly? You know we don’t know why Women like shoes so much.”

I never really understand what he means but it makes me giggle and before we know it we’re both laughing. I’m pretty sure this is what friendship is. I lick the wrapper to get all the tarter sauce off and start on my second sandwich. Earl starts his second cigarette.

            “Where’s that alley cat you got trained up, boy? Go get ‘em and I’ll cook him his own fish patty.”

            He means Jimmy-cat. I wipe my fingers on my jeans, tear off a piece of the damp fish from my sandwich, and walk towards white picket fence that Earl built around the dumpster where Jimmy-cat lives. Jimmy-cat has a good life; he can eat anything in the green dumpster he wants and he is safe behind the big white fence. I don’t like the smell but maybe cats like eating and smelling the furry tarter sauce that clings on the sides of the dumpster. As I pull the lever to open Jimmy Cat’s home, I think it smells even worse than normal. After jiggling the latch a while, it clicks, and I swing the door open to Jimmy-cat’s house. It definitely smells worse. I step up one step and crunch on leaves and squish cold fries as I circle the dumpster. “Jimmy-Jimmy-Jimmy-cat, where-oh-where-oh-where ya at?” I stop as I enter the back right corner, I see Jimmy-cat but I don’t understand what is happening. I don’t understand what is wrong. He is covered in ketchup, maybe? But if that’s true what are the little white thingssss crawling around his stomach and why are they covered in ketchup and mayonnaise too? He is mewling and I’m scared. I smell fish. Fish and furry tarter sauce, one, two, three, four, my feet are crunching on the cold fries and leaves again, I know I’m at the door without even turning around.

            “Boy, what you doin’ in there?”

            “Earl?” …One…two… “Earl, can you help me? Earl, I, I don’t understand. I don’t like it.” …Three…four…five… “Jimmy-cat needs a bath, Earl, and something is eating his stomach.” …Six…seven…silence. Earl’s hand fells like a dead fish on my shoulder as he walks me back up to Jimmy-cats home.

            “Stay here, Cyril. Just gimme’a sec to see what’s happening.” Earl disappears into the leaves and fries and fur.

            eight…nine…ten

eleven…twelve…

            thi­rteen…

fourteen…

            silence.





            “Boy? Come back here now. C’mon.” Earl’s voice echoed around the green corners and I followed. One…two…three…four…five…six…seven I stand above Earl and I know the ketchup and mayonnaise and Jimmy-cat eating monsters are just on the other side of his crouched over body.

            “Well don’t be shy, come look.” Earl stands and I see his work apron covered in the ketchup and mayonnaise but beyond that in a bed of Fish-filet wrappers is Jimmy-cat and all the stomach eating monsters mewling at his stomach, as I get close I think they look kinda like little Jimmy-cats. I push my hood off my head as I lean over closer and that’s when it hit me, “Kittens! Jimmy-cat had kittens, Earl!”

            “I think Jimmy-cat may be more of a Jasmine-cat or Jennifer-cat.”

            I laid down the piece of fish I brought and Jimmy-Cat looks up into my eyes and I swear he was happy to see me.  I looked up at Earl and he was happy to see me too. I sat down in the mess of wrappers and fries and mold and laughed and laughed and laughed.

This poem was written after watching a few hours of slam poetry on Youtube. Let me know what you think...it's my first shot at slam poetry.*

There are so many words flowing around out there about the big girls. The thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls. About their plush and soft exteriors, their abundant backsides, their willingness to accept themselves and their hopefulness that others will do the same. Their….thereness.
They are beautiful, don’t get me wrong.
They are beautiful.

But what about the skinny girls?

The small girls with petite builds and large hearts and an aversion to the word short. The size two and under girls, the drive thru can’t gain a pound girls, the I AM NOT ANNOREXIC OR BULLEMIC girls.

The girls who will always be referred to as “pixie-like” or “waif-like” or “twig-like.” The perfect model body girls that all of the other girls hate…because of their lack of fat.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The girls with the size 32 bust line, the girls who, at 24, still shop in the junior sections of department stores. The girls who, regardless of their age, their strengths and weaknesses, their experiences, heartaches and joys, disappointments and triumphs, their want or need for life and love will always look like they missed a meal or gave it back purposefully with the intent of becoming even thinner. The girls who, no matter how ******* HARD they try, cannot even weigh 100 lbs soaking ******* wet.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The big girls have to search and search for cute and **** and attractive clothes because of their size. Guess what? So do the skinny girls. Do you know ******* hard it is to find a pair of pants with a size zero waist and a 34 inch leg? To finally find an extra small shirt that doesn’t have one of the top three cartoon characters of the time plastered across the front?

All I’m saying is yes, the thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls…
They are beautiful.

But ******, so am I.

Maybe it was my ADHD or my Bipolar or both, but as a child I would put in my headphones and just pretend I’m living… this is what I did for fun, I would put my headphones on over my ears and wear a beanie to keep them from falling off.  I would put on something with sickk drums and a kick *** guitar, grab my skateboard and push wood.  Synchronized with the music of course, this was more convincing to me that I was not in my life, but that I was in this fictional reality.  This reality didn’t even need to be better, it just needed to be not my life; but it always was, better that is.  If I didn’t have my skateboard I would interpret the song and either skip to it, walk rhythmically to it, or rock out somewhere; it depended on the song really.  This was my first drug and I could not understand why nobody else wanted to live the way I was living… the only thing I wished different is for the music to play out loud and not only in my head as this tended to make me feel self-conscious or awkward in the supermarket or at public places in general.  
I needed spectacular lenses nearing my middle school days due to my incessantly close music video watching.  I needed to feel as if I were there with them so I would sit right in front of the TV set.  I even went as far as to grow my hair out and part it evenly to both sides so as to black out my peripheral vision.  I consumed music and art that went along with it as if I were a ******.  I truly believed the singers in the videos were where I wanted to be, they understood me, their words taught me the truth, their music lifted my spirits, their presence kept me company, kept me sane.  They taught me everything my parents should have.  They were my angels, my saviors.  They taught me about freedom and expression.  I began writing, singing, acting, dancing, philosophizing, creating art, creating art through life.  
Life became a music video, and I became the voice, my emotions the music, my brain the lyrics, my character a poet, personifying sacrifice.  I couldn’t understand why everyone else was so BORING! Why they didn’t see me there skipping down the street and run to catch up with me and say, “hey, what are you doing?” … or something along those lines. I didn’t understand why I was alone still in this new world.  
Nowadays I find myself in front of a computer screen, playing guitar stationary.  Waiting.  Working.  Waiting... and Working… And I will be there one day… I will join them all… I will be there with them GOD ******* ******.  I just need to get to that stage.   I will break through that ******* SCREEN and I will be that guy in the ******* TV that will make that little kid somewhere jealous of him and the world he is living in.  AND I WILL ******* INSPIRE.  UNTIL ONE DAY ONE LUCKY GENERATION WILL GET TO LIVE IN A WORLD WHERE YOU CAN GO OUTSIDE AND EXPRESS YOURSELF TO THE MUSIC YOU ARE LISTENING TO AND NOT BE CALLED CRAZY AND NOT BE JUDGED AND NOT BE RIDICULED AND CASTED OUT OF SOCIETY.  AND NOT THIS, AND NOT THAT, AND NOT THIS BUT WORSE, AND NOT THAT BUT TRAGIC.  I WILL ******* BREAK THROUGH THAT ******* SCREEN YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT AND I WILL KEEP THOSE LOST CHILDREN COMPANY AND I WILL MAKE THEM FEEL LOVED AND I WILL MAKE THEM FEEL ALIVE AND I WILL SAVE THEM FROM WANTING TO ******* DO IT SO ******* BADLY BECAUSE NO ONE WAS EVER THERE, BECAUSE NO ONE GAVE A ****, BECAUSE THEY DON’T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY, BECAUSE THEY DON’T HAVE ENOUGH ANYTHING… but I can’t put food in their stomachs and I can’t keep them warm.. BUT ******* IT THEY WILL NOT FEEL NEGLECTED.

Crackling criss-crossing blue in mind. It scissors down the lanes through the pipes and tubes and little dividers. Electrical mind numbing beauty. Veins-bursting in excited anticipation. Convulsions and scenic skittering routes. Into the Nexus! Here simmers what we are thinking and believing. Our mind's eye focuses and drips into the pool until completion. Psionic figures dance flicker through life existence. Pulse-width fluctuations. Tiny menagerie of our Will. Scribbling through dusted panes of time interface. All afire with ourselves once we have discovered ourselves. Nano-tech emotions. Hope fear anger mercy curiosity buzzing swarms of grey goo jibbering and bubbling in an artificial mind-****. What is all this allusion? Nothing complicated. Speculation on future times where sensual technological biological singularity is paramount. In my room where the clocks are taped over and the sun is dark and dim. Through the windows I see myself. The boxes on the floor emanate simple clickings with melodies intertwined casually. I myself appear redundant. I have done this and so have others. To discuss oneself is worthless unless you become convinced you are another entity gazing back across the room. I feel I am being watched. I become cautious as he may have noticed. Tingling weightlessness tickles in waves in both heads. The Jazz Classic appears. Old dark men and women in hazy environments. Organic supposition or cold observation? Both hold importance so let us appreciate it all. The cello quivers and hums with vibration. Fingers callused and riveted like the age-old corn field bother still strings. A child hums to just myself. What does he want? I never asked him for an audience. Yet he freely gives it to me. Now he multiplies. Or she? Children confuse and cause one to be apprehensive. Nothing and silence. Silence in movement. Cease my visual stimulation for a couple seconds each. The child is back. What does he speak? Pray inside the rubble? Heal in this place? In disgrace? I do not know. His octaves are meshing together. Whining and thrumming with strange alterations. Some madmen tweaks my ears. Maybe he knows the child? I'm not sure. Let us continue on. The flute is the child. Old cello, you have stopped? These musings mean nothing. I would look upon them in a year and think nothing of it. Yet it feels as if this time is important. Da Vinci knocks on the door. Not as if I wanted to talk to it. Wouldn't mind I suppose. He is gone. We talked but I do not remember the conversation. Perhaps we've all talked but we just don't remember our conversations. That's ridiculous though. Then anything is possible. We could have flown to the moon on scarlet weasels outfitted with the latest nano-pores that secreted pure liquid indulgence. And we did because I just imagined we might have. However, I don't remember actually doing it. Just what I thought it might have been like. How frustrating. My thoughts are the same as all others who write out their thoughts when under the influence of yourself. It always seems like some thing is scuttling near my feet or under the nightstand; just out of view. Strange. I would be afraid. No reason to fear that which doesn't bother me. No reason to fear much of anything. That's been said before. Why are we so often concerned with saying that which has been said before? Cliche? auump-ump auump-ump auump-ump little thumping noise in my ears. That vibration is calming. Every night I am awake. Every day I seem asleep. I do not like it but I do not care yet I allow it to be what it will. Vision defaults to out of focus. My eyes always cross if I cease trying to control them. People are strange. Animals are strange. Same thing I guess. Someone will find that clever. Someone will find it cliche. This someone won't care. ****** fantasy permeates day to day. More entertaining than living a fantasy though. ***. Not that entertaining. Perhaps no one knows how to do it properly anymore. Maybe we never did. Maybe some people are just disenchanted with it. When I'm by myself, I never have any ****** desire. When around others, I generally think of it out of curiosity: what would it be like to please the person in front of me? The only enjoyment I've had with *** would consist of pleasing another or observing another ****. The human body is intriguing. Definitely. I really do think so. Sometimes I look at my own. Not out of appreciation really. Just the fact that I have body allows me to investigate it and understand it more. Pain is merely a stage one can get past, so I suppose I injure myself sometimes to see how I react. It's like I need to check I'm still working properly. I can't tell when I'm tired. I feel something, but when I ask myself if I'm tired, I murmur back, "I don't know." Maybe that is why I stay up till early mornings? I wanted to add again that the human body is beautiful and unappealing all in the same space. Perhaps the unattractiveness and softness and strangeness produces attraction. A negative and a negative equals a positive. Three negatives likes to fluctuate. In my mind at least. I may ask another to remove their clothing and whatnot during those intimate moments. Eh, never quite feel like having *** though. I like the emotions and sensuality of just looking at someone. They usually want to physically play around with each other. I think I enjoy fighting more. One day I'll leave everyone except I'll reminisce on those I enjoyed meeting. Maybe come back and visit? I would like to ride something quickly through an empty desert. Find my own food and water. Create shelter. Think by myself. My room is the smallest desert I have and the biggest. I have more in my head but I only occupy one at a time. I suppose I like I do like things like all others. I mean, materials can be nice. If I impart meaning on to an object it gains importance. I see it vital to also say that if it were to be lost, then I wouldn't mind and I would obtain something else or nothing at all.The constitution. Just mentioned by some woman in my room. Or in my ears would be more correct. Constitutional Rights. I honestly don't see the need for them. I was criticized for burbling that once. We should not need a constitution. We should be able to do what we like to do without fear or concern. Unless natural fear and concern appears. Now that may confuse a bit. Right to bear arms. I shouldn't have to be told or allowed to massive bear arms if I feel the need to have them. Big hairy bear arms. Curious little mishap. Freudian slip as Johnny said once? Danger Danger. Anyway, Right to bare arms. I shouldn't have to be told, as I look back,  go back and throw in that comma after told, that I'm allowed to bare arms and defend myself. I'll just do it if the need arises. Freedom of speech. That already has many issues these days. However, there shouldn't have been a need to tell people they have freedom of speech. Speech should have been freely allowed and never oppressed in  the first place. Theme? We have erred so much in the past and I would think sometimes we ignore that and just try make little cosmetic fixes by saying it's okay. Another point. Hold that: side discomfort. I sometimes feel like a little spider or creature is crawling or skittering on my leg under the covers or I'll change the music to Galaxy 2 Galaxy 90's hi-tec jazz there we go. Done! Now back! Or I forget what I said about the spiders. Another point: what? ******, curse damnable ****. Can't recollect what it was I was connecting together. Something that tied in to deceiving people into things are okay. I could go on about consumerism and all that jazz. Instead I'm listening to some techno-jazz whatever-decided-to-call-it. Hyphenated phrases are fun when I decide they are appropriate. English and grammar in such can be cool but at the same time I want to say **** it and stay proper. Do both. Acknowledge how to write and speak "correctly," but as long as someone understands what you are trying to say, then why correct more? Someone large doesn't like the fact I make a lot of noise in the morning. I stole some speakers and subwoofer from the room next to me as I was going to say Austin.  They are on the floor and whichever large person lives below me is probably annoyed or was. I don't spend any of my actual time despising them, but I'll easily say I despise them when someone asks. Otherwise it isn't worth wasting time on. Perhaps the vibration quivers downstairs and shakes them silently. The greate beast is perturbed and sneaky vibrations cause electro-annoyance! Her pulsewidth as I understand it must be like a super-saw as I think it. Silence. Some woman said it's just a feeling. HEA not sure what why I put that sounds like a garageband song. Switched to Inspiration! That is what I did this night. Finally start writing and making things again. Even though I never did and always did. My head sometimes hurts from thinking. Never truly though. Gotta say those things to keep the conversation going. That is really the only reason I say anything. To keep the conversation going. Otherwise I'd just watch people and be just fine. Just yelled "bahh," out loud (didn't sound the comma) because I felt the need or the want. Same. Wrong keys erased. sdas=a====dddddddddd Sorry. Oh well. Oh My. How the time flies goodbye. Going nowhere. Could write more but I felt the slight flicker of wanting to stop. So I do. What an ending. Now I'm only typing to continue the conversation with myself. Just thought ******* sounds good melody. Do as I sayt way to go good job. STOPSDMFA

****** a

Guess I'll read this little conundrum I wrote up. Stop writing ******. Stop EDITING

******, please let it end,
That is what I ask for and
wish for, just one slight bend
in fate to let my body land
six feet under the ground.
******, my choices are mine,
no one will turn me around,
because I will always be fine.
The moment it turned from
"best for me" to "best for all"
is the moment that I become
fine, till the day that I fall.
See, I am done changing
myself for everyone else,
Because there is nothing
I will let be done to myself.
Everyone is more worried
for me then I am, and that
means I should always heed
them, cuz I am definitely bat
**** crazy, to not want to
conform, so let it end, the
questioning of me for who
should worry about me
unless they want to use
me? Why is it that I have
to change, when they abuse
me, I would let heaven move,
Before I do

How do I ignore you when
you're right next to me?
God ****** we keep bumping elbows.
I can't blast my music
loud enough to tune out
your presence.