Artists are we

Of words
Of space
Of sound

Late Style is

A metaphor
A contradiction
An aesthetic

Minds would be

Abstract
Analytic
Apathetic

Heart beats with

Rhythm
Rhyme
Romance

Of
reasonable
irrationality

I don’t know what I’m looking for
But I’m looking for something
And I keep ending up back at
“Everything is nothing”
Which means that nothing is something
And the thoughts refuse to stop coming
I know there’s no running

I cant escape being in this ring
Forever feeling like every direction is a haphazard swing
I can’t see a thing
Feeling like society’s puppet on a string
There’s a list I keep, sorta sloppy neat
But God tells me, “take a seat”
I yell back, “that’s no easy feat”

I don’t understand what all of this is for
Life feels like a game, except I can’t score
I can’t open the ****** door
They wanna say, “when life closes a door, it opens a window”
But all I see is a **** show
That’s not to say, I don’t see the beauty in how a river flows
That’s not to say, I don’t see the beauty in how the same river froze
You can tell me I’m dramatic, that I wallow in my throes
And yeah Lil *** told me, “that’s the way life goes”
But I’m fed up with everyone’s prose
I don’t want to believe that’s really how it goes

And so I sit with Robert Frost
At his two roads, curious at how he tells me he’s actually not lost
How it’s not left to the probability of a coin toss
That everyone just wants to be their own boss
Pretending that they aren’t nailed to their own cross

I don’t know what I’m looking for
But I think maybe I’ve been playing the game wrong
That there is no score which could lead to more
All I’ve got is a case of nothing being something
And that’s really nothing more
Than “everything is nothing” for sure.

Community,
they told me I
I was a part of it,
that I must comply.


We’re told to comply
in the way we speak,
in the way we interact,
in the way we feel.
Those who oppose,
those who stand
for a transcendental nature
are fitted with the title
of an Outcast.


An Outcast: A person
deemed unfit to live
amongst the classiest
of society. It’s a title
given out by the Elites.
They give out a title
under the predicate of a
falsehood and the personal
perpetual facade of laziness.
I am neither.


I am in the world, yet I am
somewhere that isn't Earth.
I am here, but I am not.
I exist, but my mind, my
opinions become a blur.


My mobility becomes a leisure,
and my leisure becomes my labor;
My labor becomes my profession;
My profession beholds my title.
I roam in the society casted by the
Elites, but I am merely a chess piece
to their game.


I am not an Outcast, I am not an Elite.
I am the class of the inbetween.
I am the silenced voice.
I am the history that’s repeated,
I am not a part of the community.
I am of the voices that
are disregarded.

I am
                               an open book
           Written
                                            in a foreign language
My heart
                              on my sleeve
                                                            With a mask
covering
                                      my
                                                                          face

It's all in the brain
Pain and whatever
It's just your brain
Telling

Who? You
That seems stupid
But who am I
If not my brain

Don't tell me
I'm a walking paradox
Brain?

You wouldn't believe me
even if I told the truth.
You wouldn't see a darkness
in my soul which you have
painted as light, as pure.

My role is that of an
innocent woman,
that of one with mild
tendencies,
that of one with
of stinging words,
and deliberate opinions.

No one ever sees
how dark I am.
They see the flux of
light that I have to offer.

They don't know the secrets
which I keep.
I'm too kind, I'm too simple,
I'm too sweet, but that's my
stellar performance on stage.
It's where I take my blossoming
breaths, where I indulge
myself in act one,
enabling myself a
break before act two
and before
the grand finale.

It never ends, for the
dramatic monologue
is of a continuous cycle of both
expectations and mildness that
I uphold.

Darkness. It's there.
You just don't see it.
No one sees it with
people like us.

The most innocent hide
the most complex secrets,
The most innocent hide
the darkest secrets, but
no one sees them until it's
too late.

Sophistication,
is it determined by grace,
by stature,
or by class?

For sophistication is to
be defined by not what
a person has, but
by what a person can
accomplish.

His hands were calloused,
they were home and a
remedy for the mixture of
my sickness that I never
could pinpoint.

Hands, such a feature
that could be the instrument
of a subordinate
and domineering teacher.

They are looked upon,
not given thought nor inquisition,
but that wasn't the case for me.

Those hands were
where I found my
reprieve, an unhealthy
and vindictive reprieve.

Those hands were
a paradox of all
things combined.
Those hands were a
paradox for the cruelties
and involuntary injustices
in the world; A world
that was filled with grizzly
reprimands and slurs for
those who spoke up.

Indeed, a paradox those
controlling and
manipulative hands were.
They were cruel.
They were kind.
They were abusive.
They were reassuring.
They were foreign.
They were home.
They were the origin
for my shred of sanity.
They were the origin
for my absurdity.

Oddly enough,
they were home.

A cruel world seals
its fate and its pearls.
It leaves the rarity of
oddities abandoned among
the normalities of abuse.

Among those normalities
and oddities were those
hands.