Writing poetry, attempting to be honest, and trying to steadily improve my outlook and myself.
Scars; a cliche’d touch to my poetic license,
but I see some appear where I had removed something
in order to become something different,
and it worries me that I don’t remember what I got rid of.
Have I cut off too much? What did I lose
when I tried to become this no-nonsense monstrosity?
Did I kill my revolutionary? Did I lay him out like Cesar?
What if I burned off my creativity to be “an artist”;
trading genuine hope for bloated pretensions
which I now find myself pulling my hair out over?
I wish I could look back and tell myself
that no title can be that important,
don’t be so ready to become a legend,
because you will lose everything
that would turn you into one.
Please, tell me I can get it back. Is it too late?
Did I try too hard? I just wanted to be better,
and now I feel like my bones are collapsing.
Why was I so eager to strip myself down to this?
Popping out of joint,
I feel my ethereal existence dislocating
and I am so tired of wanting all these loveless things.
Humorless, that’s what I am. I can laugh,
but I’m so quick, too quick, to question another’s joke.
Just smile, you big dumb prick, not everything needs your approval.
When did I become so unimpressed? Why am I such an asshole?
I just want to love, and love unabashedly!
I want to write, and write freely.
I want to live, and live unrestricted.
I just don’t want it to be too late to that back.
Pretty pretty pretty.
Too much, smash some windows.
I want something mean to say,
because I’m sterile with a polite demeanor,
but no no no, we need to keep the picture clean.
Want to sing the chorus? Fuck the verse,
lets all see the simple conflicts through
and dance through the parts we don’t recognize,
why would I remember yesterday when its today,
I’m only a moment in each direction,
and I don’t have time to keep thinking.
Its the family photo finish, don’t mess it up,
everything needs to be perfect, so be a mask,
at least for a little bit. HA HA HA, what were we talking about?
Cross the eyes, dot where the lines already meet,
because if I connected my own dots,
who knows what image it’d make,
it looks like a body, watch the screen
watch the screen, watch the screen,
pay no attention to the wires or lights behind it,
all you need to know is that it works;
that’s how it’s always works and how it always will,
so don’t worry, its all already figured out.
Oh, have you heard this joke,
of course you have,
but let me tell it again,
so we can all laugh on cue,
and so we don’t talk too much,
because I would have to be active for that,
and then I would have to question the curtain,
then what would happen to the monotony?
Sleep, sleep, sleep (Nah… I don’ wanna)
Sleep, sleep, sleep (No… I don’t wanna)
Sleep, sleep, sleep (NO! I don’t want to)
Sleep, sleep, sleep (NO! I do not want to!)
Tear the picture, break the frame,
smear the color, forget the smile,
destroy the screen, diffuse the glow,
I want to think and give a shit again.
I want to be vulgar because I can choose to be,
I want to be yelled at, not nodded with.
Bring me a hurricane, and I’ll breathe it in deep!
Plainly lost in listless sight,
we pour sad songs down throats
in joined solemness as a sort
of meaningless gesture
to keep the lines still.
Liar angels dance on damp sleeves,
losing the war in their abandoned message,
a work force on strike bringing the end
by passing time in blank looks of apathy.
They use to watch over the crater city,
but now they live there, hoping for rain
as they drink the months away, because it
gives them something to pray about.
Will these walls hold? Probably not,
but we are nothing if we aren’t waiting artifacts,
stranded in deserts of our own ridiculousness,
and maybe we will sing to archaeologists and architects
when their minds wonder to our final steps.
Let them hear us, let them polish the stones,
and then let them walk away, let them move one;
move on like we never could.
Utopia! O, Utopia!
Hanging around in my rear view mirror…
I had dreamed you and killed you,
you defied every syntax, all rules of logic,
and It made me hate you;
you were something outside of what was,
and the more of this world I saw,
the less I could believe the word which defined you.
You were in a bubble surrounded by reality,
partitioned from this world, despite being created in it.
I could speak your name, for your concept is clear,
but in your essence, you can never exist
and by those means, I can no longer hold onto you.
I hear how you call through forests
and gently break a winter’s silence
like an old station’s crackling melody
emerging from the speakers of a dead radio.
I wish I could turn around to watch you sink beneath the hills,
but I keep my eyes straight, driving away,
you fade with each turn of the wheel,
like blues and reds paling in the sun’s gaze.
Maybe someday your bubble with pop,
and when someone speaks your name
you will come to life like a manifesting fairy tale,
and maybe it will be me who does it,
wishing you at the edge of the night
lost in a familiar town, come find me;
Utopia! O, Utopia!
If you talk in a theatre while a movie is playing, I WILL FUCKING CUT YOU!
All my friends are broke,
my family is getting tired,
and I just want a beer,
just look how far we’ve come…
The Human Smoke Break
Speaking in terms of mute universes,
he used languages deep in the lines in his face,
his consciousness displayed plainly across his skin
as his heart traveled along his sleeves and fell off the edge.
His silent story stretched across the space between us
and I watched it dig into my gaze in an agonizing moment.
I saw the depth of his exhaustion wisp along like light breaths,
almost unnoticed in an unwatched timeline, gone forever
in the collapsed bubble of a second if I had not seen it.
The war machine in his eyes is lost between mouthfuls of smoke;
inhaling probability and exhaling chaos,
a master of accepting cause and effect,
but not before feeling them collide together in his chest.
He would quit if he found anything even remotely as satisfying.
His lips curl like metal beams bending under intense pressure,
forming a sort of black magic smile before blowing a fog of desperation,
purging it from his body, letting a lack-of-focus take its place.
He looks over at me, seeing something beyond me,
but courteously pretending its me he’s peering it.
He parts his lips and words slip from their mental prison,
escaping into the open air, dispersing as they hit my ear,
“Some days I feel like I have a job to break up my smoke breaks.”
He laughs before going inside. I just turn the words over in my head.
Its enough to make me sigh, we deserve better.