You are washed up
Out-dated
Old-fashioned
Never fashionable.

You treat me like an anomoly
Like my intelligence is withered.
Your goal in life is to make me feel small.

In response, I stand up.
Shout
Scream
Belt
Until you can no longer ignore me
Or put me in my place.

I love when you get that look on your face.
That look of utter
Disgust
Disconcertion
Defeat.
It just goes to show that
I know how to outsmart you.

This is why I need feminism.
Why I have embraced it.
Because everything that makes me "unlady-like"
Makes a man ideal in your eyes
And in society's.

To rid the world of
So-called human beings like you.
While in reality
You are nothing but a sexist.

You don't love me, do you?
I wonder constantly. I know it.
Your love is immature and selfish.
I remember thinking love would be bliss.

You wouldn't mourn me, would you?
I watch as you do nothing as I die of stress.
Do my eyes look angry, accusing?
You don't help because you want to do less.

I'd be far too inconvenient, wouldn't I?
You watch me drown in my efforts.
I fully expect you not to reach out a hand.
I wonder if I could possibly think of you worse.

You wouldn't spit on me if I was burning.

I hate you when you are smiling, lately.
I'm having premature heart attack symptoms
Anxiety, stress, and PTSD are killing me
I'll rip the smile off your face and the air from your lungs.

I don't care that you're frustrated, lately.
Or did you think empty platitudes would calm me?
Tell me everything you plan to do
And will I believe you? Probably not, we'll see.

I'm tired of feeling like a glory hole, lately.
I'll pay for your comfort and deal with your lust
Nice to meet you, I contain a brain, wow!
And I'll use that brain to leave you if I must.

It's disconcerting to me that you make promises you break so easily.

Do you read my poetry anymore? I doubt it.
I'll wait to post this just in case.
Just how you gave me no warning that you don't care for me.
I'll give you none when we part ways.

Some sinister stare, some mocking grin
Some sauntering gait
Poison drips from the chin
Smelling of medicine though reeking of sin
Sweet, sweet, sweet absolution

Guilt isn't heavy, regret is a feather
Love is a memory buried deep in your dresser drawer
What is more; the sores cease to sting
Lacerations healing
Love is a son who's died in the war

A war that's for peace but brings disconcertion
My son died in a clash of raw rash emotion
Drowned in the Pacific under titanic swells
And here, where I stand, I will drown just as well

In some fight I surrendered so long ago
To some serendipitous tide
Some hellish curse
Some bittersweet brutish tempestuous flirt
For in a fight with a devil I know I can't win
Inside this bottle I find absolution

An affinity sequestered away in a languid beat of my heart.
To whom I've fallen for so gravely ill, this churning affection grows a part within me.

The fire toils for a great satisfaction,
one of which I cannot fufill.
The strung voices that I provoke to keep you in the know are nothing but a timid reliance to keep me in the dark; a fault I've succumbed to, and a death I'll forever hold in disconcertion.

Perhaps it is best I keep the key for my own, but this pent affliction will be a pernicious ailment, gutting me within as the present becomes the past—day by day.

Oh, how I walk among the shadows,
lurking in a void, consumed by the daunting portents of failure.
Oh, how the hauntings of what could have been lingers.

But, alas, my silence has spoken, and now I must walk the shade of night and bear the quietude of my lonely plight.

Fragments passing as compete deep thought
Trailing off the loose ends of stray matters

Tossed.

Caught.

Each unpredictable click of the can opener seems
Almost methodical.
Introducing the overlooked somber molecules
Found nowhere on.
The periodical [table].
The atoms of my mind chatter now inching towards unstable.
If not unstable—then forever moving.
Atoms can be our teachers
Theoretically impossible to stop.
Constantly only describes change.
This wristwatch is my life’s calculator
Taunting ticks, as life’s dictator—
Time.
I am each measured lapse’s pawn
I better lived dreams when he’s finally gone

A penny for my thoughts?
What’s worth to barter?
Over an American dollar’s fraction’s fragment.


Money has it’s own momentum
While consumer goods are in storage
Dust collectors, manufactured to stagnant
Leading me to the phrase
Money Hungry.
A system designed to teach craving, dependence
With a starvation, a desperation
Without a method of redemption

Applying to all addiction—no exemptions.

In America, we die young.
Every heart is a volcano
Too many, too early exploding with red-toned emotions
Every name in vain. We’re all bound by the fearful chains.
Resisting each disconcertion
Life shaking change after change

Overtime draining us, unhealthy blood pressures
Straining us
Unknowingly lacking essential nutrients
Does anyone really take daily vitamins?
If I did, it must include inspiration
Human beings need humanity
Or the poles will rip the seas apart.
Everyone seems to be, even me
Tired of chasing a new horizon

The words of ageless me at nineteen

My generation wakes up to numbly realize
The connection between
Reality and a dream

Has been severed.

Cutting lines to the hope in what this life means.

I cannot accept this fate, I’ll write it down instead
I’m wide awake humanity,

I can sleep when I’m dead.

Again, I find myself in this seasonal panic
What if these are not even dreams? Being
But only theoretically organic.

This planet at times appears a spherical slave ship
The world bank opens
My country’s farmers can’t sell ****.
What about free?
Elders say the day man invented money
Was the day he made poverty

I frequently struggle in every direction
Landlocked in the 1% complexion
Feeling dependent and resentment for the institution
Those times I ask how I can manifest revolution.
Doubt is the parasitic twin of confusion.

I know that I have to know pain,
Humans play with fire, waving so stern

Butterflies don’t ask caterpillars for advice.
To teach is to learn.

In the name of revolution, bring on the burn.

xii.x.xi