This is an ode to Adderall,

that wonderful mixture of

dextroamphetamine sulfate

dextroamphetamine saccharate

amphetamine

aspartate monohydrate

and amphetamine sulfate capsules

that all combine together

to form a prescribable pill

questionably similar to the Schedule II controlled substance street drug

commonly refered to as "Speed."


This is an ode to the children

who are bundles of energy caged in a classroom

incapable of concentrating

on the miniscule tasks given to them

by pedagogical authorities that

promise societal success and economic happiness

to those who complete their work on time

without a fuss or a doubt as to why they're

filling in bubbles on paper in the first place.

The confused children who watch

as others with calmer brains

fixate eyes on textbooks

rather than out the window.


This is an ode to Society

deeming these individuals as broken

choosing to wound then medicate

rather than proliferate.

That took their inquisitiveness

and locked it in a book with the label "DISORDER"

stating that you will never be anything

unless you think and feel the same way we do.

And much like a mad doctor

lobotomizing those whom he thinks insane

they synthesized a pill

to dampen a torrential brilliance

allowing them to place their sedated children

back in the box where they belonged.


This is an ode to the college students

chained by academic standards

expected to excel towards great things

if only they reach that ethereal diploma.

The students who crave the artificial focus

the increased capacity for concentration

with the broadened spectrum of perception

the sense of purpose in the tedium

the ungodly ability to think clearly

and perform the meaningless tasks they expect of us.

The students who go through illegal means

to purchase said drug

to swallow or snort

and dive back into the mountain of responsibility

with a new found sense of productivity and motivation.

An ode to the students

unable to find purpose in studenthood

the ones who find more virtue in watching the sunset

burn clouds into firework oblivion

before then blessing us with uncritical night.

An ode to the students

who discover more education

in climbing to the top of a mountain

and yelling a nonsense decree of passion

just to watch the echo

bounce from shore to shore

in cathartic reverberation.

The ones

for which our pill

is the only possible manner

of assigning purpose to purposeless assignments.

These are the ones

who must binge

cram for days before

the big exams

going whole nights without sleep

or food.

The ones slowly cracking under the increasing pressure of academia

spending more time questioning why they must complete their homework

instead of actually completing it.


This is an ode to my brothers and sisters

who stand in horror at the mold we must fit into

crafted by an unknown unshakable entity.

The ones who lost the appeal of cookie-cutter success

in exchange for a small understanding

of the way things really work.

The cogs that twisted off the machine

and now sit lotus-posed in the corner.

My fellow birds with broken wings

still expected to fly.

My fellow carpenters expected to build their estates

yet not given the proper tools to do so.

The ones of cursed cold clarities

perfectly capable of clutching

those fifteen minutes of dynasty

yet refrain from doing so due to

the immaculate futility of it all.


This is an ode to a drug induced rant

that no one will read

the one that I chose to write

instead of doing my **** homework in the library

like a compliant student.


This is an ode to the pressure-oriented procrastinators

that delay and yet again delay

their petty necessary obligations due to purposeless and exhausted motivation.

Swallowing substances to summon some sort of incentive

to fill in the bubbles

and cater to the Society they find so confusing

the ones who only under influence of synthesized chemicals

find reason to squeeze into that culturebox

that cascades down a bumpy man-made conveyor belt

branding a diploma onto your forehead

injecting an occupation into your veins

transforming your pupils to dollar bill signs

demanding you breed children

to do the same as you have

and you'll never be happy unless you do these things

right?


This is an ode to those who reside in the shadows

of our broken social system

and conjure up great conversations

pertaining to everything and nothing

that are as wonderful and necessary

as the prints of your fingers

caressing down a comfortable torso

just before the sun rises

the untouchable indescribable realizations of life and love

that are completely irrelevant in their eyes

but are entirely necessary for our survival.


This is an ode to the overwhelming feeling of love

greatly exacerbated by a pharmaceutical delight

whereupon connections with other humans

become both incredibly appealing and oddly magnetic

for a few electric hours.

The oxygenating satisfaction felt

the instance just after the small talk architecture masks

fall to the floor

and right before we put them back on.


This is an ode to the minutes before the amphetamine crash

where the world still doesn't make sense

but we briefly don't mind

because a few fleeting moments of energy and purpose

in this otherwise detestable confine of reality

are all you can really ask for

as you complete the assignments

then step outside

to smoke yet another cigarette (they're absolutely wonderful on Adderall try it some time it'll **** you slowly but then again what won't?)

only to witness our Sun

breeding fire clouds in the east

illuminating the Western Abyss into purple-gold spectral oblivion

and in consequence therefore

between puffs of a necessary cigarette

you grin to yourself in quiet victory.


This is an ode to misaligned priorities

to those who when walking to everimportant final examinations

think not of the curriculum beaten into their skulls

but take careful measure to step on every crack on the sidewalk

who stare not towards the future

but to the beautiful reflection reflecting back from the broken mirrors

that are the weary days and weary ways

of this curious existence.

To those when stepping into the absurd spotlight of Society

unapologetically proclaim:


"Though I must play your game,

you will never win."

i am waiting for a lobotomizing love,
to disembowel my mind
to erode my bones
to scoop out my insides with shaking hands,
lifting them to the light, i will not be reborn

debilitating, primal instincts and i
am waiting for a lobotomizing love

She leans on my shoulder
hisses to me softly
with her serpent tongue
that slips into my ear
curls in my brain
lobotomizing

Violent waves crash ashore;
in this dream I cannot tell what is real anymore.
I see a figure standing ten feet tall;
the moon obstructed by a beastly maw.

Murmuring questions with a sleepy tongue;
answers haunted me in grim return.

Lobotomizing the entirety of my mind,
the feral creature only spoke with shapes and rhyme.

Poised before me was a legendary hunter.
A ghastly dire-beast, who could tear the world asunder.

Sporting a melancholic expression;
he opens the sealed mouth with a deadly suggestion.
His gums bleeding from pale infection.
Sourcing the problem I ache with poor digestion.

Unable to sniff out sustenance,
his own life-force is leading him astray.
In this nightmare; guilt turns night to day.
Lost in the dark the hunter cannot pray.

Mustering the strength, I mend his pain.
Reaching into the gnarly abyss;  
pulling out something of a shame.
Rapturing open wounds; I am fearful of blame.

Crying with a grisly howl.
I am becoming apart of the beast;
and the hunter becomes infused within.
A ritual complete.

The fabric of reality dissipates as the moon weeps.
I rejoice with newly kindled vigor as I exit this plane of existence.
Exalted I am, now I rest my troubled mind.
May this prolific dream endure all of time.

the sun,
      it beats down on the grass,
discontented and desolate,
      godless,
I pass with a nod

the cells,
      they spill out on the floor
with fury and desire,
      fullness,
it spills out on the floor

color,
       it reacts to the soul
radiant and lobotomizing,
       mind,
it beats down on the floor

and the sunset lasts forever.

taking candy from spiritual strangers,

whose only wish is to

connive you into understanding—

that you are mortal and thus can fail,

at anything and everything you set your mind to

by using distractions of your flesh—

how it feels to be touched

echad echad

you call the names but they barely

mean anything by now

these eyes

once so pearly oceans are now

shut-off hell’s gates that call you forth,

asking you to lay down your soul for

something so fleeting as

succubus sugar lips

and you finally understand

echad echad

it calls to you as you try to walk away,

to try to better your bleeding,

your razor-sharp dreams—

so diamond clear that you cut yourself

reaching through the void

to feel it, to feel something

becoming possessed by the idea of possessing—

something—

a spirit a person a hand a light at the end of the

tunnel that you’ve been limping

and dragging yourself towards for so long

that you barely remember what it feels like

to be free

to be joyful to be happy and you wish,

you hope,

that some sovereign crown some prize

is waiting for you when you emerge from your filth

into new white clothes,

a conformation in snow,

leaving behind the Harry Potter scars the demons

the hatred you’ve spent years hoeing and raking and sowing away at—

digging your soul out from under the ivy that’s been

creeping numbing,

you look into his windows open up his chest cavity

to find the flailing flawed organs

beating madly away

I love you I love you

echad echad

but it’s too much to rip sutures out now

the skin has grown over—

the molecules trying with all their dark matter might

to heal their physics their chemistry,

the great scientists had no notion

of the neutrons and protons of the spirit

the Holy Spirit of all the ages,

combine, puzzle pieces that confuse and puzzle

your very matter and mass of existence

why do you love how do you love,

what is this

echad echad

friends who wish to become guardian angels

when they fall through the void,

but who find themselves already there—

living skeletons living shrouds—

I want to help but step back stand back

let the bomb implode without absorbing the fallout,

and sometimes I fear I’m becoming a fallen angel too,

the youth and light splintering through

the windows of the houses that sometimes I swear I see

specters spiraling through—

so I constantly exorcise the notion of darkness from

within the very abyss of my cranial lobes

without lobotomizing myself from the pain

of two thousand years of history

cry for the Biblical hysteria

can you hear it—

nearby the horizon you should hear the hero

dragging crucifixes as chains

and sin, sweet sour sin,

is the taste in my mouth every morning,

no matter how many times I swish the mouthwash—

I’m constantly reminded of the fact that I am human

and thus cannot attain angelic security in my beliefs—

bless me again for I will fall

I will feel

this anxiety until the second

Saint Peter ushers my soul into eternity—

I can hear my track record echoing now—

ringing a hollow sound—

every time I convince myself of one more vain day

one more lustful night,

every time I see your eyes,

wide as Horus’s,

but inside I see Cerberus snarling against his choke collar,

so I continue calling out

over my shoulder as I flee

echad echad

for at the center of this infinity fold lies love,

for this is a metaphor,

for monsters of Hades dirtying the waters of our minds,

having us believe that lust equals love

as E equals MC squared,

but it’s not exact except for exaltation

so it echoes the old adage

echad echad

pink ribbon scars

he tastes like you but sweeter—

anthems of our childhood that want us to feel

like we’re not alone but what is there really—

to help—

and why isn’t every drop from Heaven holy water,

so that every time the rains come our past lives wash away

and we are born anew—

Dios Mio! Mein Gott!

crying S.O.S. S.O.S.—

what would Saint Augustine say in our present state,

ICXC drawing the sign in glittering gold to

protect to bless to save

our simian style souls,

and Twain asked who prayed for the devil

the precursor to the apple-fall,

Newton style,

and it is God,

God prays for the most fallen of all,

so why do I find in my heart that it is so hard

to forgive those who have done so little

in comparison—

sing the baptismal rite,

sing ICXC,

letting our sins be scrubbed through cross-like metaphors,

but what truly is my cross to bear—

to always fall into a love so poisonous

as Eve’s apple as Snow White’s apple—

I’ve drifted I know

but I sift through the sieve of my body,

searching through the oats and grain to find the seeds

that fell on ground not hallowed,

to recultivate them to grow—

Lord knows my rut my routine

is as bad as the next heathen’s,

my dress hangs on my frame,

a skeleton queen

trying to gorge my heart out on a love not pure

a life not fulfilled,

help me I pray—

this is my cry—

my anxious mind feeds off of trying to decode

the taps on the glass of eternity,

trying to reach through impenetrable planets to ask—

what is this love I want it so bad

echad echad

I’m a baker’s making of nature and nurture,

trying to unearth from the dregs of the soul

the meaning the feeling

of why of what of how

but finally finding that no matter how maddeningly

brilliant,

how beautiful and ******,

we cannot know the mind of God—

we are not titans,

we are not the same stuff of myths of legends of angels,

and I cry, I cry, I beg and cry,

my beggar’s prayer is to know

when I have been given such grace,

why am I still greedy for more—

for I read to you from a play,

I read to you from poetry that you claim is not about you

but it is,

for only you have the dichotomy of fast knives

and feather kindness that I could express

so eloquently,

but you don’t understand you will never understand

the marrow of my faith in a God that you believe you are as strong as,

even as I plead you to stop playing with this soul

you have been so graciously given,

because you are dazzled by other

seemingly stronger things in this life,

your eyes becoming clouded by this idea that you are immortal

even as your heart palpitates a warning to slow—

to slow it down—

I’ve seen so many brought down by these myths of power

and magic, candles burning brightly

now snuffed and made silent by spirits you know naught of,

and I cannot stress the simple thing that strength

is more than pride and Samson-ian body girth,

but you battle away these tried truths in

the face of temptations,

giving up and throwing down the sword that was handed

to you to fight to persevere

and I see—

I see I see I see—

the demons that you fight are titans in your shadow,

even in mine, they are tall,

and I have to let you go because it is slowly becoming too much

too hard to handle the reins of this bucking rearing thing

that was once love,

because no matter how much of my sloppy dripping heart

I throw in your face

you will never understand the depths the dark recesses

of why, of how,

I came to be in

echad echad.

As my footsteps disappear into puddles
And the ripples go silent
I put to doubt
The things we make
Of mud today
As knowledge travels
Rails of science
Instead of the path
Of knowing time
We’re sending light
Where it wasn’t meant to be
Like the greatest of all angels did

We have turned learning into
An autopsy of everything
Lobotomizing every liberty
Analyzing mistakes to find
Better excuses
Bitterly abusing conscience
And sapience
Numbed by the applause
Of every new Eureka!

Lobotomizing my emotions
so not to fall on a sabre of
indecisions that haemorrhage
in my capacity to foresee.

I am a rendition of contorted
ambitions that I want to dissect
upon a realization that all is
not I wanted it to be.

Asphyxiate my breath, cull my
words so not to expel the true.
My reflection will be deducing all
that fell silent in vain before.