The bar.
New personas,
Rare from near to afar.
Tangling in the smoldering lights,
With haste.

Never knowing what you want.
You mean one thing and say another. Longing for attention yet you won't bother.
Bother with honesty, bombarded with hypocrisy.
These are the things my eyes sees. The things my heart feels are real. Feels real to **** the pain inside.
The truth is we both may not know what we want.
Flaunting a fake persona to get what we want.
The information layed out says one thing, and your words another.

An artist too lazy to make any art
So what am I?
The sleepy commitment holding your hand in public places
An enormous gratitude lounging in between spaces with a stain on her shirt
Always seeking to be the next big thing

A stoic
Unable to process any other philosophy
that doesn't kiss me when I'm nervous
Lights turning on in the afternoon
And the warm glow of knowing people are inside
There
Ready to open up the door and invite you into the individual smells that occupy their reality

I am I-don't-remember-the-city-anymore girl
Sterile buildings and antiseptic coast
Are both memory and fiction
I am everything's-sort-of-familiar and yet exactly obscure
A contrarian careful to never admit that everything
Will make sense with enough persuasion
In the corners of my mind sits a woman
Smoothing out creases of my brain like the folds on bed sheets
Or the wrinkles in a shirt
And I allow her to because I love her
And I believe that what she does is affection
And maybe I'm right
Or maybe I'm wrong and I was never an artist
But something else entirely because that's so much easier

Gods, I’ve been forsaken!
I – formerly blessed by the sun –
Cry out to you, you who leave
My words unheard.
Once a daughter to kings, I wait
Inside an indiscernible prison
For the fall of my beloved city.
I predicted this, my people, but
I cannot blame you, my people
I spurned the sun, burned my fate
And now no one will heed me.
They tell me I am
beautiful, I am brilliant, I am
insane.
They tell me
To leave the future to kings.
I spoke to you, my people
The contents of the horse
I spoke to you, my people
When we shall catch our demise
With axe and fire, I rush,
Only to face the barrage of disbelief
I hear them laughing, my people
Those who will carve their place
Where you once stood
But you will not listen.

Dark, play with the pants down.
Tell all, invite hell, I
took it for basic.

Dark, loose lips sink the ship.
Yell all you want. I
took it for granted
that

You knew, the line between
being
a miserable joke,
and/or
being a successful joke,

is in your grace toward the product,
and your ability to bottle it,
for your audience,
with confidence.