With long flowered fingers you could explore your head
your very own head
(your very own head)
pry apart the skull with red-painted fingernails
that scrape and scratch your skin
eat out your brain
Eat out your brain

Child of the mountains, reined on
your very own moss, grown in your garden
outside of a crude stone cottage
next to a murky brown creek,
mossbeds surrounded by rounded stones,
all chocolate-ebony and smelling
of earth

that is when you have to pull out
your cultured claws
and eat out your brain.
Your very own brain.

You wish you could paint those talons
and set them on a purse and force
your fat scaly body into a pretty dress
your elongated wide feet into heels
and dance.

But you eat out your brain
Burn the ends of your fingers
no fraying here,
You eat out your brain,
like a slushy, so sticky, so smooth
so stringy.

eat out your brain
(eat out your brain)

I sometimes catch myself glancing at someone.
Then turn around, but I can't stop myself from staring back at them again.
The way people do something, and look so beautiful, without even knowing.
When they draw, when they do their homework, when they're watching TV, some people just always catch my eyes, and I can't help but stare at them. It makes me smile, and I kind of fall in love with the way people do stuff.

It's hard comparing yourself to the world.
It makes you realize how different you are
but it doesn't make you feel special.

It all depends upon what you see, though,
when you look at how you are
strange
compared to people you know,
strange
compared to what you're supposed to be,
strange
compared to those who are, to you, just the stereotype.

It's unfair is what it is,
or what it seems.
Because you see
your sufferings,
sufferings that you get despite the
strange goodness inside of you.
When the stereotype is far worse then you,
far, far worse,
but you feel the punishment
inside and out
for the small, harmless mistakes you've made
and they don't have to put up with any of it.

unfair
Unfair. Unfair! UNFAIR!
It's so UNFAIR!
What's even the point of being good?

But then you look into their eyes
and wonder if they even see your suffering
because they are too blinded by their problems
and you, by yours.

So who has it worse?
Good or bad?
And what about evil?

Is this just life?

Disoriented poem
                                 True nonsense
               But by definition
Does it have purpose
              Tell me for certain
                                 Is it a worthless fraud
                                       Composed of senses’ shells
                                                         Concealing life without the law
                                                             ­                Law of a motive,
                                             One’s reason and justification
                            Now fragmented with a poem
             But is the poem illustration
Symbolic, emblematic,
             Is their truth in its act
                            Of destruction, any thinking?
                                             Shall it raze the moral ground?
                                                         ­  Or far more quickly
                                                         ­                  Blight us all?
                                                            ­                          All in this state, this
                                                            ­                                               fluster,
                                                        ­                                      This plight,
                                                         ­                     All in this way
                                                             ­  That we’re departing