I want to eat junk and not grow fat
I want a loving boyfriend whose not an *******
I want to miss classes and still get a degree
I want to be a pro footballer without hurting my knee
I want flawless skin with an iced tea and milkshake diet
I want my voice to be heard and still be quiet
I want to have hot *** and keep my virginity
I want to party all night and day and keep my sanity
I want to smoke trees as still be religious
I want to not lift a finger and still be prestigious
I want the impossible

Burst into tears for no reason,
Except the girls in my class are
******,
Rude,
Unpleasant,
Judgemental,
Apathetic.
Burst into tears for no reason,
Except there’s a lot going on at home,
I’m not sleeping,
I’m struggling with money,
My Grandma has gone,
There’s no internet escape.
Burst into tears for no reason,
Except I do not feel well,
My stomach is in knots,
My brain throbs inside my head.
Burst into tears for no reason,
Except I’m overwhelmed,
With work,
And uni prep,
New classmates, classrooms,
And societies to join,
Friends to meet.
Burst into tears for no reason,
Except all of this is going on.
All at once.

Feed the pure,
As they come to your door.
You feel the need,
To sow the seeds,
To see golden corn sprout from bald heads.
They turn to you, with silent open hands,
Offering you nothing in return but the purity you have longed for forever,
You will wash their robes and days old socks.
Homemade meals in a lunch box,
Pasta to microwave for you still don’t trust them, not to live off junk under cosy rags.
On trains, back to the houses of wisdom.
That use your gold to uphold their roofs.
For Marx and ideals that exist just as dreams, they burn with sin when such tongues leave the gate.
You look on, because you think it’s too late.

My room is looking emptier than it ever has before,
Got the clothes on my back; boxes are packed, sitting by the door.
Oh, how this is happening oh so soon feels like a dream,
But by the time the week is up, it’s me, my dorm, and the university.

II.
To love pales in comparison of being loved,
but to love and be loved in turn?
Truly puissant, indeed.

III.
Though on the thread of life, the ink will spill
but never fades away. Now I see. If all I am
is to be nothing but a memory, the least
I can do is to make it a good one for the
future seeds.
Memory can slip and slide, but these words,
my words, that I have painted will remain.

My home is a wasteland of cigarette butts and coffee cups
Help in repose for better mornings
Where a bitter taste in my throat lays dormant
And I think alone, in regret of nothing

As fresh *** brews and *** ignite, thumbing my finger ring.
Tracing back words in search for other purpose,
realizing secrets as regrettable burden.
Clear throat for first sip, and light a second cigarette.

It is not insomnia but rather being too bored to sleep.
It is not knowing what to do with your hands
When someone says they love you.
It is wanting to discuss film, art--
Hell, anything, with anyone--
Only to talk yourself down
Before the words escape your throat.
And yes, All the words come from there.
Some guttural utterance only heard for those that care.
That pesters you too.

All the nerves in all the world with all the words,
and there's nothing wrong with them in my head.
Passions intermix and weaken,
with every passing moment of thinking,
So I speak of Russian filmography,
mingle as hands press to small of your back.
In an instant, a stutter, a wide expression.
But my hands were always in my pockets anyway.

"Sometimes the curtains are just blue,"
An old professor told me once
From behind his olive green desk--
In front of a whiteboard that made him look small.
Curled over, I respected him more
For the fact that he knew
Nothing everything has a purpose.

Purpose is as purpose does, "I know I know nothing."
Pretentious is as we may be, sentences full of stuffing.
Like our shirts and puffing chests, teach me like you went to university.
Analyze in caffeinated anxiety every word ever said to me.