Is it unusual to hate life
before 20?
To not understand why
we pretty up for a party?
To focus on things that maybe
aren't JUST about me?

Is it unusual to daydream
at night?
To wish for wings, and like birds,
take flight?
To get up everyday,
and feel like
i'm losing this gift of
a fight.

Is it unusual to see everyone as a fake,
only acting, for monetary intake?
To look through old lenses,
in a new frame,
and take a dive into
my own lake?

Is it unusual to look out my window to see only plastic?

Drastic self-defence,
Drastic in my linguistic augments,
The evidence of my attempts at trying,
To see any future where I’m not dying,
And it makes no sense

Tactic for offense,
Offensive in sarcastic defiance,
Ambivalence on a course for further premonitions,
Static fragments of my continual refusal of any medicinal diminution,
Please help me make some sense

Psychopathic friends,
Systematic traffic hence,
Pensive head and that will drive you,
Insane and round the bend if only they all knew,
I can’t see any sense

Automatic ends,
Ammunition diplomatic,
Suspense in its unanimously tragic situation,
Fate’s unenthusiastic in its conflict upon two cognitive nations,
That makes no sense

Anatomically attic fenced,
Just a poetic way to represent,
One’s combative mental condition,
An addict and the opposite always on the right and the left warring in attrition,
If that makes any sense

Plastic ornaments,
Plastic bottles left to lament,
As the alcoholic labyrinth in my life that cannot be broken,
To help wash down writhing thoughts forced to remain unspoken,
And an I that makes no sense

Fix it no expense,
Fixed monthly recompense now,
I am a myth of someone, whom I do not know,
Sickly pretence took me down a road that I never wanted to go,
And now you say I’m finally making sense

Panic is absent,
Absent the magic,
In the pills that in basic blindness I routinely swallow,
Dynamic in the worn out tools that continue to carve once whole now hollow,
Does that make any sense?
Now I’m really not making sense, by finally making sense

And I sort of fell in love with plastic cups.
The ability to fall, and never break apart.
Because, as for me.
I'm just a glass positioned a little to close to the edge of the table.

Plastic People, with their rubber dreams and artificial passions.
They're raised by their plastic parents who give them wax smiles, hollow promises for a future.
Plastic people and their perfectly polished personalities have superficial beliefs, in which they are the center.
Their corrupt ideals on intelligence place people in categories of A through F, score others out of 100.
Plastic people know nothing beyond the realm of themselves. Their selfless actions preceded by selfish thoughts.
Skills wasted singing self-centered songs, writing conceited poetry.
A plastic person does not know that they are plastic, but will accuse others of being so.
Now, what does that make me?

It seems that these days nothing is real
The world around me shimmers artificially
Women will have procedures done to fit into the world of plastic
Men find it more simple to use cheep tricks to get a night of love
People on the street dress to make the illusion of perfection
Little girls stuff their bra's and paint on geisha faces pretending to be grown up
The sad truth is that,
Nobody is genuine anymore