I just wanna take
a long-***, sharp-*** knife,
and cut myself
up some lemons.
When life gives me ****
I make a crap stained lemonade.

And when I'm 21
I'll get myself a gun,
and if life goes too south
I'll just stick it
in a safe place at my house
so I can protect myself
if something
god forbid
endangered my life.

I hate everything.
My brain is a mess.
My life is a dump.
I wanna go on a bridge
and look at the awesome
******* view.
It's the small things in life
that make me not
**** myself.

I made myself a cup of tea.
It was made of water, sugar,
warmth, leaves, and shape.
A lonely cup of hot water,
birthed into existence
only to be consumed.
Boring and small and not loved
and not hated
and not thought of
and not wanted
by anyone
but me.

And so for a short interval
between its assembly
and its death
the cup had purpose,
to be drank from
and enjoyed and digested
until its reserve
of taste and liquid
is exhausted.
The best purpose
that a drink can hope for.

But the cup of tea
was quickly forgotten
by its busy creator.
He, I, had other affairs
of a human nature
of which a tea
could not be aware,
or understand,
or control.

I was gone
But the tea was still there
left alone on my desk,
its warmth leaving its body,
its scent attracting ants
and flies
and other raiders and scavengers
of leftover nutrition,
its temporary value,
its purpose,
dwindling away.

The tea would run
somewhere, everywhere.
Anywhere
would be better than here,
than the cold desk,
the dark, so thick and shallow.
But the tea had no legs.

The tea would scream
It would call for somebody,
everybody, anybody at all.
"Save me! Drink me! **** me!
I can't love,
and nobody loves me,
I can't smile, or hear, or see.
I have nothing, I am no one.
I hate this world
in which I can only ever be
dead
as long as I am anything.
Save me! **** me! End me!
Me, who is cursed
by existence itself."

Save me, end me, know me.
Love me, please, love me.
Me, who is childish and empty.
Me, who cries over spilled tea,
and doesn't care
about anybody but himself.
Me, who knows nothing.
Me, who loves nothing.
Me, who is no one.
Me, who feels betrayed
by existence itself.

Every dreary day's the same.
Every important detail is halted
in a stalemate over a somewhen
that feels much like eternity.

I remember it all by heart,
my laughable fortress of apathy:
the texture of the chair,
the length of the motion
between my hand and my addiction
in the form of keyboard and mouse,
the brightness of fake mechanical dreams,
and the mess of real ones.

Then the line between evening and night blurs
or sometimes night and day,
and comes the tedious unrewarding process
of laying in bed, and listening
to all the little pains
of human body and mind:
little scratches, aches,
and too many thoughts.

Thoughts about
all the little things
that make me insufferably like myself:
my ego, wishing only to cage the world.
and make it dance like a fool,
conversing with despair,
an extravagant fellow
who sees no world
outside of mechanical fools
staged on a collapsing surface.

There are also social thoughts
about the game theory, hormones, and stress
of playing in human society.
People connected by fragile threads.
Loneliness is a paradox,
as it tends to grow with density.
It’s always hard to find
the ideal strategy.

I also remember well
the feeling of waking up.
I would have never known
how passionately one could hate
a series of fragmented sound bites saying:
"The time is 7:30 am. The time is-", I know.
Of course, you can’t know that I know,
or rather you just can’t know,
but it feels like you should by now, y’know??


After a period of time
equal parts instant and unending
I find myself strapped
to yet another, less comfortable chair.
There are a few dozen others
sitting in equally uncomfortable chairs
in equally inexpressive fashion.

At an opposite angle,
stands a bigger one
relaying piles of data
to be computed and organized
and tediously rehearsed,
by us, smaller calculators in training.
The most exciting
and unfun part
of our structural data training
are the tests
to check each one’s margin of error
and kindly give particularly special care
to the ones on the lower end
of achievement.

Sometimes one of the bigger ones
asks me if I’m fine
what a stupidly kind but pointless question.
Because, of course,
there’s only one correct answer
So I make a clueless face
and give the same one every time
I want to be a good calculator, after all.

But it’s far too obvious
to even bother saying
that nothing is ever fine
maybe that’s why no one does say it
and when I remember
the depth of my unfineness
my center of gravity sinks
deep into the earth
and all that’s left is the feeling
of my soul digesting itself,
and in those lucid moments
when the game of reality ceases
and nothing can be good or bad
and life becomes
too sad a story to handle
I can’t help but smile.

I always thought it weird
When you served the swans
Poisoned remains
Smiling so sincerely
Like the smile of a mother
To a newborn child
And yet they never learned
The virtue of mistrust
Over the taste of crumbs
Not evil, just weird

How is it that you speak
Of fate, justice, and pain
While drinking black tea
Beneath sun and plantation
How could you understand
What makes life worthwhile
Can't you see all of them
Are birds of your feather
And why do you bother
With counting the corpses

Did you hate them
When you ended their lives
Was it out of pity
For birds without wings
Were you miserable
At least for an instant
You must have been
What could be beautiful
About innocent lives
Being smoldered by cyanide

I don't hate you
I just want to know
How could you look at them
With a spark
In the gray of your eye
As if bewitched by a miracle
Even if they can't
Tell you that themselves
How could nothingness ever
Make the river more whole

"Roses are red,
violets are blue,
vibrant as love,
my love for you."

And yet what of it to the rose,
the colour of your love?
Why tire her
with your cacophony
of disjointed emotions,
stretching and bending
across your heart,
giving life
to an empty shell?

Must you call upon the violet
to prove your love?
Must you abuse
weeds and flowers
with no pulse of their own
to show that yours still beats?

What would you do
if the rose were to wither,
if there were no gardens,
if the sun never set
and came so close
you could steal it's glow
even if only for a glimpse,
if there were no rainbows,
and no rainy days?

Can you ever truly love
on your own terms?
Can you love someone so much
and understand it so little
that no rose, lily, or violet
could ever come close?

I live,
Therefore I love.

I love,
Therefore I hurt.

I hurt,
Therefore I can die.

I will die,
Therefore I must live.

A performer can't exist
without an audience.

It is paradoxical.
The water drops
become so pretty
when no one's watching.