The dress was blue and black, life is really short, I don't always get drunk but when I do I go to church. Is Keanu Reeves a vampire, or is he a time traveller? They told me to change my ways and I don't remember what I did then.
It breaks like waves against the cranium Again and again the syncopated beat of my heart Is it magic? Is it a miracle? Is there madness behind such a glowing word? Ramblings of a madman, I'd rather me insane than comprehending extreme sanity. What sanity is there in a world that holds no bounds? What gods can there be when man in turn becomes his own god? I have no answers, I am all but questions.
Urgent and bursting, it is a sweet fruit that ripens until juice trickles out, Turgid and thick, quivering and throbbing like breath itself, Not solid or liquid but a state inbetwixt.
Maybe this is mania, maybe this is something above what I am? Who am I if not for my breath and my breaking? It is the gaps that make the solid thing whole.
The Reds won by turning capitalism and democracy against us The frenzied shortsighted pursuit of individualism enraptured by its own grandiosity Obese in arrogance and false piety Among our weakest links the myth of liberty in the guise of protection against our own From My Cold Dead Hands they will eulogize the depths of our hypocrisies tucked into the gaping cracks of a marbled column tombstone that reads We the People a hollow echo from a dead philosophers guilded mirror reflecting delusions of equality while his window glimpsed the reality of People bound as chattle An era of monsters championed as heritage by a devolved theater of gross absurdity enraptured by a sycophantic maelstrom swirling a wretched mass of vitriolic grievance creeping its facists tendrils through our halls our homes and our hearts So much bluster about essential freedoms now a **** in the wind from a constituency of the ignorant dead eyed before the altar of Exceptionalism A manifestion of the truly unexceptional by a bizarre cult of personality devoid of that very essence Whiny and bloated convinced its oily opulence is somehow self evident justification for its own cavernous gluttony Heavy the privileged jowels spew hatred and lies slathered in corruption shouted as truth through the arcanity of scripture among those who would not know the forest from the trees from the rot in their minds as long as it says so on the TV vomiting endless propaganda of imagined shadow forces flooding the country with fictionalized caramel colored criminals Willingly blind barrelling into a fog of twisted fantasy failing to realize that the narcos envisioned pale by comparison of heinous intention or deed to the very real NARCs embraced Lockstep and jackboot heel in tow behind a tide of Nationalism that is anything but A contrived patriotism cannibalizing its own mythology whittling the bones of history to alternate facts devoured by fat children as so much sugary cereal bored reading the Constitution from the back of a whitewashed cardboard box ******* about a return to values and integrity they dont possess with their fingers crossed Cowing to the blackened whims of spineless parasitic wraiths picking at the shades of fallen titans Packs of roving dipshits trumpeting ideals their grandfathers died to eradicate Prancing about sporting the finest camo and tac gear in a perverse sashay Their measure of civic duty reduced to how much red white and blue crowds their shitstained boxers dowsed in cheap beer and sad rivulets of encrusted ***** trickled in a shame for which they have yet to fully account or atone Fools leading the foolish to oblivion are we God bless the USA for surely no creature under heaven would
A friend once told a girl I liked that I was obsessed with death and I yelled and screamed as I denied it but it must have too much for her as she walked away and never talked to me again that night I punched the wall till my hand bled it was that or the knife that’s a lie I never cut myself why would I write that? I was probably looking for attention that’s what they say isn’t it it’s only for attention not because I don’t know how to feel or how to deal with my emotions not because I can’t talk to my friends I’ll never say how much it hurts and so they’ll never know Sometimes they do know though and they ask and I lie Saying everything is fine when I just wait for them to go so I can cry but I’m just looking for attention so what do I know now I wonder if my friend was right the day he told a girl I liked that I was obsessed with death truth be told the thought of death does bring me comfort Not suicide gods no but the idea of an eternal sleep free of anxiety or emotions to trouble me does seem quite tempting and now I write poems about my emotions trying to put into words what I don’t understand and hoping someone relates truth is I never liked that girl all that much and my heart is dead but not quite and life is grand I mean horrible and love is everything but also a lie and this poem is like my mind: a chaotic cacophony of thoughts and feelings all mixed into one.
First time I've ever written in this style, it was fun
Like that time at my best friend's wedding when I had to give a speech, and even I knew I was full of **** talking about love being a fairy tale. But I was so drunk on Jello shots and Crown that I talked myself into believing it for four years.
Like that time I said too much to make a boy stay just one more night, and I gave up my freedom for silence and dishes and diapers.
Like the first boy I ever loved falling back into my lap and my mouth moving faster than my head can keep up with... is this even a good idea?
Words flow freely in open silences because I cannot stand the sound of nothing around me when the noise inside of me is so loud; all this has done is get me into trouble.
I've been crying again but don't worry, I’ve been trying to understand myself and my sexuality since I was young, i came out as bi just to see if the label fit but it feels too controlling and the box gets a bit smaller each time I say the word, I’ve lied to friends about hook ups that never happened and have pretended to enjoy kinks for people I'll never meet in real life. I feel a disconnect to who I'm trying to be and I don't know if I'm scared of accepting myself or if I'm scared of someone getting too close for me to learn it hurts. How do I explain to my friends that I don't understand when they complain about not being with someone for a few weeks when it's been years and how do I know when I'm telling myself the truth and when I'm picking another label, I need someone to tell me what to do but there's no one to ask so I'll keep going until I understand.