It burns
I can't help but laugh at my own tears
                Anticipating you and what you keep in your jeans.
It's silly...... CRAZY even!
               That I could sit rubbing myself against the edge of the bed
While you are....
Where? Where are you?
                             Clearly not here
Not close enough
Not hard enough
               I can't sleep I can't eat I can only watch you and weep
I'm sorry, come back
I wasn't going to bite...
               But I could if you wanted me to....
I'm hysterical my love,
                             I can go all night

Man becomes woman woman becomes man
headline dictation that makes you understand
but what's this? The scene goes beyond extremes,
the black/white photograph is of color underneath.
But **** me, I'm being erratic. I'm standing on tables
shouting so your disdain's automatic. What's up with
this new fad? Uhmurika never had it this bad. We have
a literal metric ton of whining millennials wanting to be
special snowflakes. Man, who could take all of this social
pressure? Being held accountable for a miserable, literal lack
of knowledge about the world around us? Man, definitely not
for me. But seriously, bro, did you get your **** cut off? What's
up bro, **** you get your **** sewn on? That ******* ***** lacks
a ******. That motha ***** lacks the design that gives him a similar
package when his blood pressure rises. Don't talk to me about feelings
before you've had the operation -- because before you've done that step
it's better if you don't implore my empathy or patience because you're
just not real, I won't feel the weight of your complaints and frustrations.
Matter of fact, for you, ess jay dub, my emotional core's on vacation.

Leave me alone with your dialogue.
Discourse is not for me.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
How do you prefer to ***?

Is it this hard to admit to your audience there's something else outside
yourself? I can see how defining the lines with alacrity makes it easier
to breathe the air you breathe to stay alive. It must be nice to stand tall
and be you and not have to bray declarations of self to stay confident
and true to the compass. Walking is all it ever takes you yet when I say,
"Actually [...]" it's enough to make you think it's me getting in your face
with another liberal lecture, but I'm just keeping real straightforward
about which terms I prefer in our vernacular. Shut up, you **** up, we
advocate for your finish, only requiring you fit into our premise.

Leave me alone with your dialogue.
Discourse is just not for me.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
How do you prefer to ***?

I just think it's best to have some canned material
in case you need it.

There is sometime
in a year
when I think that

Love is a hysteria.

in the back seat of a car
the headphones in the higher volume, the sound spreads
in the back seat of a car
with it's secrets veiled by it's mouth

only when it's useful
it is had with attention
but in indifference times
disappears in the darkness

passing the crossroad
a master and it's disciples
the mists surrounds it
and make it invisible

the bell rings
the sparrow sings
the cigarette burns
the blade cuts

with it's friends
it walks
but the loneliness
surrounds it

into the night
a cry of pleasure fills it
a nervous laugh
followed by the kiss of love

a punch that makes it bleed
the Patriot gives it
it's clothes in the street
and freedom around the corner

the wind whisper
the owl sings
the candles on
the moon shines

in the woods appears
smiling, hysterical, naked
dancing in endless spirals
with it's invisible beings around

in a black and white world, ruled
a being with colored eyes
breaking boundaries and walls
the arcana 0 incorporates

in the back seat of a car
the headphones in the higher volume, the sound spreads
imagining the perfect perfection
in a place of pain and prejudice

the pen between it's fingers dance
a silent music
the poem of it's pale owner
the paper reveals secretly

So carve my name into your chest
and send me pictures, dear.

Write me letters in the red
and bottle all the tears.

Call me an angel.
Tell them I'm lying.
Scream it 'til your words make sense.

Fill your lungs with hatred
and spew out penitence.

Because you know with all your silent flames
and pledged ambivalence,
You know with all the months and years
of burning my pictures as incense.
You know that I'm your demons.
The burden that you bear.
I drove you to hysteria,
you say I brought you there.

So discard your kilogram of flesh
to punish me, my dear.
Leave it at my doorstep,
sweet nostalgia for my tears.

Tell me I tore you apart.
Whisper that I ripped out your reason.
And I will say I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.
I will say this.

But you never voiced your anguish,
your complete disappointment in me.
How was I to know that it was I
who drove you to insanity?