Two lines, visible on your right arm;
I kiss them every time I see you.
Not much else can be said about
two little lines, but I need to say more.
Two tiny lines that'll scar and fade away
leaving only a memory of why you
ripped open your arm because you felt
completely and utterly alone
because your own brother couldn't
or say anything.
or stop you.
Even when he saw you create
those two bleeding lines.
I'm supposed to wake up like flowers
and grow like vines
I fall asleep with eye-showers
and walk along blurry lines
I'm expected to stand tall like trees
and sprout wings and be free.
But silly old me
Doesn't understand being free.
we have been taught
to color inside the lines
since we were little kids,
so explain to me how do we
continue to stay inside the lines
when life is everything but that.
no wonder we always
close to the edge,
but never really willing to cross
because we fear what would happen
if we did what they told us not to.
When a tiny child looks up
he is really
his own father looking back in time---
A fool there was
and he makes his prayer
to his mother's cunt
to which he is a witness
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone
and a hank of hair
A child never wants to see
its mother's cunt
once it's gotten a good look at it---
(We called her the woman who did not care)
But the fool, he called her his lady fair
(Even as you and I.)
& spends its life searching
for one that looks just like it---
I hide behind these lines.
In my head.
On my arm.
Around my throat.
My life is full of lines.
Cutting isn’t going to kill me.
One painkiller won’t either.
If one can’t kill me, two surely can’t either.
Two isn’t working anymore,
Better take another, and another, and another, and another. (another 4, get it?)
Soon the bottles are empty,
Just like me.
I don’t have enough will to kill myself.
And I hate that I reached out.
And I hate that my friends care.
And I hate that I’m on medication.
I hate myself.
Because I hate myself.
And I hate myself for typing my thoughts,
For someone, maybe to see.
I want to date someone, but don’t want someone to care about me before I go.
Look at all the lines I’ve already done.
They still aren’t enough.
I know I need to get better,
But fuck it.
I’m finally happy. (I̶f̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶y̶ ̶m̶e̶a̶n̶s̶ ̶I̶ ̶h̶a̶t̶e̶ ̶m̶y̶s̶e̶l̶f̶,̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶)
I tried to be a mainstream normie a long time ago
But found that there were too many background checks
So I contemplated becoming an inbetweener
And found that I'd never get that sweet middle ground
Being the strange creature I was
With all my intricate love for Australian pop bands
And deep interest in aged cultures
My art teacher identified me to be a hipster in senior year
And I blatantly refused, contradicting my intentions
Now, as a dubbed hipster, I pretend to fit in the grooves society has for such a category of people
Better not overstep my limits, I thought
When I strived so hard to find a group
To belong with to begin with
My efforts to assimilate to this hipster culture
Has got me pretending to be a role
that I thought I wasn't cut out for, but I'm finding
That I'm actually quite skilled in this act
Like an actor that's found truth in the lines
Of a play that sounds more realistic
Than the unscripted scenes of real life
I blame you for making me write all these sonnets
I tried to make the best of it, but five?
How in the goddamn world am I supposed to write five?
Doesn’t each sonnet take the course of a week?
And it definitely seems that we don’t have five weeks
To write five pristine perfect sonnets
I’d rather read fifty poems than write five of these stupid things
I’d like the meet the man who decided these poems
Had to be fourteen lines, stylized rhymes
I’d say, go to hell with you and this torturous format
Instead of making me write these many poems
All in the same style, all droaning on in my mind
Like an endless treadmill of poem-writing
I say I’ll do better on the next assignment, but truthfully
Ok, so here's the deal
I've got waaaay to many poems
I can't find specific ones
Eliot's search engine, just ain't, goin
What if we had a better one?
one that actually finds words or lines?
Ya think he'd be on board with that?
or think it, a waste, of time?
We could search our own, or others
and find some inspiration, and a muse
Or we could just stay right here
and all our sanity, lose
I'd like a better search engine
I'd like it here, and now
I'd like a better search engine
someway, right here, somehow