Scotty has a girlfriend,
But Scotty likes to wear dresses..
Is he gay?
Of course not! He loves girls!
But..
underneath his bed,
there's a box full of secrets..
secrets so big;
it's impossible to keep em'.
What would she do..
if she found out he's been with another guy?
She'd break his neck,
as she runs to the corner to cry!

sexually confused!
Scotty doesn't know,
he's sexually confused!

She walks into her high school class,
people can't help but stare.
They don't know what it is;
blue eyes?
dark hair?
Nope. It's what's going on,
the thoughts inside her head..
It's this other girl..
"She snuck into my bed!"

sexually confused..
her peers don't know it yet,
but we're all sexually confused!

Nick has a secret,
you see hes got this fetish.
All he does is
sit around and act it.
He sneaks into his sister's room,
and tries on her clothes..
He walks around the house,
in her skirts and underwear.

Sexually confusd,
he's sexually confused!
It started with being dared to wear a pair..
look what happened,
now he's sexually confused!

Claudia's depressed because
her feelings are always surpressed.
She burries her mind with drugs,
never admiting her passion,
she's made fun of for the way she's dressed.
There's this girl, you see,
she's got dark hair and blue eyes..
they can't be together,
because well..
us sexually confused like to hide.

Sexually confused..
You see once they know,
you know, that you're sexually confused-
you'll be taunted, made fun of,
a victim of verbal abuse.
sexually confused!
Am I sexually confused?

The human mind
Acts as a gun
Reacting violently
As statements
Leave idle mouths
Unagreeable to one's self

Firing out harsh phrases
To amend the unagreed upon
Bullets under idle skin
Missing vital places for life

Leaving holes,
Leaving wounds,
And leaving alone
Barely breathing

Idle people
Sick of gun battles
Take those matters
Into their own hands

And another parent
Burries their child
From the world of
Gun fighting words
In bullying

I see no degradtion
in my broken passion of words
these words I speak from my deepest creases
my secrets hidden in the birds

I let you read me in my peices of peices
and I am called absurd
I let you let me shift you with my magic
now your vision of me is more blurred

Ill let you hunt me down
so lopsided and up and done battered
I open the door hallucinating and tattered
its not not like you never mattered

I just have remote in my hands
I have intrusive in my wastelands
now my lungs expand


slow
ly
I lift my eyes and bend my head
without voice I preech muse of the dead
Im yearning for more than lifes bread
and we yell enough
enough
was said
but I get on my knees and I beg
life I say might there be something better that you can
grant
to express myself in ways purer than this
because I feel that I cant

I will carry my mind somewhere further than any foreign land
somehwere to a brutal coma
where little aliens of dripping uphoria exsist
hidden deep in every uncharted abyss
they will come up from the mudd
I will unravel them with the unraveling of this flower bud
I will lift my head up then nudge
in acceptence of all these empty cabinets
they have been emptied out by my wet mouth
to ease the pain and **** the drought
that burries itself like a baby
under the sheets of blood in my eyes

I want you to understand
every strand of hair on my body is in pain
my blood is a knife
flowing through me
secretly whispering your name to my skin
and my skin burns and falls like ash

my sheets are stained with the deader parts of me
my body lays on the bed
and in the dark hallway
I am peering into the room
watching the love rot away
and decay

the moon burries itself into the sun
and I bury myself into everything I cant reach
and I sink so
so
deep

will you create those little things
when you look back and think of all the memories
like a picture
old snap shot
tattered edges


wearing all white I hold my breathe
next to the massive body of water
Im made out of salt
and I melt on the lips of the winds
the humidity is staining my fingertips
and Im closing my eyes immersing in the
dysphoria of all of this

finally
posture comes to my bended bones
when I realize I am a waterfall
stuck in the drawer of an old mahogany vinaty set
laying somewhere in a abandoned house years
and ages away
miles and miles far remote from this place
I stare in haste


I collaborate with the atoms around me
the molecules that form my wasted id
Im a child, my hands are still small
but they are rough

Im at the park, its the closest I can get to my seed
the dirt that I am made out of
cause nothing here is natural anymore
take me away please
somewhere where I can walk on history
not in a land were the worst genocide took place
an annihlation that was dressed in a costume
oh no it was a cleansing

I rather walk on gravel
broken roads
then on fresh paved streets

I rather live in the forest
than in this so called democracy

I see no degradtion
in my broken passion of words
these words I speak from my deepest creases
my secrets hidden in the birds

I let you read me in my peices of peices
and I am called absurd
I let you let me shift you with my magic
now your vision of me is more blurred

Ill let you hunt me down
so lopsided and up and done battered
I open the door hallucinating and tattered
its not not like you never mattered

I just have remote in my hands
I have intrusive in my wastelands
now my lungs expand

slow
ly
I lift my eyes and bend my head
without voice I preech muse of the dead
Im yearning for more than lifes bread
and we yell enough
enough
was said
but I get on my knees and I beg
life I say might there be something better that you can
grant
to express myself in ways purer than this
because I feel that I cant

I will carry my mind somewhere further than any foreign land
somehwere to a brutal coma
where little aliens of dripping uphoria exsist
hidden deep in every uncharted abyss
they will come up from the mudd
I will unravel them with the unraveling of this flower bud
I will lift my head up then nudge
in acceptence of all these empty cabinets
they have been emptied out by my wet mouth
to ease the pain and **** the drought
that burries itself like a baby

Bright lights dance and flicker up above this cave
Swaying, dancing with the rythym of the waves

Hope and joy mock me right past the wrinkles
Of the ebbing, flowing sweet water ripples

I shove, i stroke, i reach out as far as my fingertips will strain
Trying to pull against this weight, this ball and chain

I envy the water, how it engulfs, enshrouds, and even embraces
It burries you in silence, and dulls down your senses

Its more than me, i cant fight against  its vigour
Stuck swimming in place, against this current so rigor

A weight so heavy keeps dragging me down
I struggle and gasp trying to escape from the drown

Desperately swimming up, its even difficult to think
Cant help but feeling that its easier to sink



The raw wording behind this poem:

I cant take it anymore
No matter how much i swim upwards
The bright surface only seems to be getting farther
Im stuck in place
The current is too strong
I hate the water
It surrounds you
Its more than you can ever be
Im envious
It envelopes you
Burries you in silence
Dulls all the senses

what the hell is to be "won"
or "lost" to earn the
status of either "winner"
or "loser"?
    came the concern:
i never gambled...
          ans the next best thing
concerning the
existential vector?
   one vote, one veto:
the democracy of death...
and the intermediate shoving
and tugging, pulling?
    such a concern for a mere
but once...
   what a harangue...
    like an impetus for keep
the snowman rolling:
   can i simply opt out,
disconcerned for
an objective?
               never found a
lizardly lazy...
              women
as pleasurible as
fattening doughnuts?
         dunno...
               keter through
to a yesod,
and... oom... glum...
no malkhut...
  left reads the right,
up and down
        and then somehow
is read backwards...
  what the **** is won
in the mortal frame?
panicky would
be ****** stemming
from Dubai...
              rich, rich, rich...
baked Alaskan he-he....
            i won and you lost
and then came
the riddle of the mortal confines...
and?
    some sort of tomorrow...
i can almost feel
for those lazied bodies
imitating mammal grief...
   because the Pontius
Pilate gesture has
become the impetus
to counter out-reaching
crux and the bitter
         sloth-slouch-scoop....
it can hardly become
worth an inquiry,
to mind oneself,
within the zoological
mindset of:
    a "grieving"
              collective...
having lost
                   a replica...
compared
to Marx...
Adam Smith is so
shyly cited as
the father of capitalism...
    sing-along
david bowie
    moments to attempt
"grief"...
           might i suggest
a loss of keeping up
with familiar terms...
      given that capitalism
doesn't have
a personal name to mind...
there is no Smithism...
              i'm just worried
that the "intellectual"
discussion is too one
sided,
     given that capitalism
has none,
   and can only feed
on the imperfected argument...
becauae who is
to be blamed of
the supposed capitalist
intellectuals?
   not once has Adam Smith
been cited...
                best talk
about the unread books...
who are the infantile examples,
who are the capitalist
intellectuals?
             just one will do,
to counter: marxism...
            some -ism...
       some necessary -ism...
             no one has bothered
to give one example in
the past year...
             the intellect of capitalism
needs to be known though...
     out of curiosity,
i'd like to know the anti-marx...
just one citation...
               adam smith?
vaguely cited...
   because i can't hide with
an orwell argument,
giving the missing point
of a huxley...
                    what is
the intellect of capitalism?
        god the dumb in me...
               i simply don't know!
then again
socialism as counter
   the post world war II
     western european
marshall plan...
        in the east...

               what can authentically
make remarks of
a citizenship of Syria
along the lines
of making ordeal from
a butcher's status...
        
    i have not heard one,
not one,
   citation of capitalist
intellectualism...
  
             with a Marx
there is no Smith...
    not too -ism relegated...
i'd love to know
the intellect though...
     given that
              for an intellect
to be so: down riddle by syndrome,
it somehow managed
to compete with
american imperialism...
and what is america
without a soviet counter?

   self-undermining,
legacy-media curator
and...
             balancing censor-roles...

       who can become the Marx
to argue the intellectual
side of capitalism?
          Adam Smith?! ha ha!
          i can only wait...
    imagining the next
improvement of utilising
the toothbrush...

             no one can deny
that we never had it so good...
and that we also had:
so little to
     relive a desire for
   continuum to be prolonged
and:
       do i have an existential
impetus to
  make more, of a failed
replica of "me"?
                no... not really;

the "useful idiots"
    can do that for me...
   having exacted
  the Attenborough saturation
quench of "argument"...

    i still don't know what
the counter-Marx
                relief in making
capitalism intelligent,
"intelligent"...
                     less than useful,
is to compensate
the current folly of
arithmetic...
                 if socialism is so
dead beyond: gott ist tot...
  why revive it
            in making capital?

           thank god i'm just an idiot
with a keyboard and a blank
stare...
                
                 too much monkey
footage, too much objectivism as
sanitation, as: ethos,
  as: "sensibility"...
   to even mind humanity being
"quest"-riddle within
the focus of the former gamble
on the next Mozart, being merely
500 years apart...

              and then the demand
burries a Mozart
                   in an **** of rot
and ammonia dust...

                            it can only be subtle
to mind an intellect in
       crafting a critique of capitalism...
such vague...
   paraphrasing...
               north of england...
                  pristine fathers of
huamnity...
                  some russians could say:
that there is no:
   all capitalism is good V.
  all socialism is bad                
                                   line of argument....
      
the counter-socialist
capitalist argument is akin
to premature *******....
                given that capitalism
is older,
  "socialism"...
    circa late 19th century genesis...

   nearing conversion:
and with death the sole abode...
    not, within, the grieving
confines of:
                a shattering scoop
of mentioning
a translation of mind into tongue...

but can anyone please cite
     a counter-intellectual output
to hide Marx and be worth
an -ism?
                  
             the easy-target
brigade is:
but short of the idiotic stance
on seiving out a mark
                      of the first tattoo.

I probably should've known that you were gonna leave at some point. That some point, you're gonna leave me deserted in a place where the sun burries itself into the depths of nothingness or in a place where the flowers kiss the soil's soft texture. But either way, it's horrible. This place looks horrible to me. And it's because, I'm without you.