If you're heart is always over-explosive,
people will call you a maniac,
I know some folk who fall in love too easy
and they're broke and they live in 2 bedroom apartments,
their rent is like the Romans sticking
nails in their wrists.

I'm not really interested, I.N.R.I.
My younger nephews crying
because I tipped over his new toy,
I laughed way too hard.
I laugh way too hard.

Sleep before work before *******
and **** your day,
constellations on constellations.
Everyone I admire wants to die.
We all commit to suicide more sincerely
than our current relationships.

We're all incompatible,
and no one sleeps enough.
I am a culprit too, I am invaluable,
I'm in denial over a lot of things,
drown it out with aspirin and youtube,
and vitamin D and spicy foods
and water and orange juice...

Enough coffee to drown a child,
they say it only takes three inches though
[everything's a *** joke, everything's innuendo,
or it's a gritty reboot of a silly franchise,
Robocop was ****** up in the eighties
now it's warm milk and
grandma's pull out couch].

I can't figure out why we need
two holidays to celebrate genocide,
my friends probably think I'm insane
and I'd never call them wrong.
I'm not really interested though.

Low voltage and the battery
is glowing like some hippie on drugs,
man **** the hippies but they are
radiant.
I can't respect people anymore,
I step on toes and curtsy sarcastically
and if I'm being kind it's somehow ironic
and everyone is fair game and an easy target,
I see in targets and blink like a ******
and bat my eyes like dragons breathe fire.

Be anything you want to be except a doormat
a pet, an iron chest, a superstar, a sucker or lollipop,
a lawyer or boy in blue soaked in red.

Run for your ******* life,
and die in the process.
Stop trying to make treaties with the modern world,
boring idiots with their noses buried in their ******* phones
and I'm not even close to old fashioned, just spiteful.
Spiteful because I'm lazy.

When the bass kicks the speakers out
my head is always between them,
so you know I don't always
listen to music
to listen to music.

They say there's no cause for these,
yet dream like, "yeah it's plausible".
We don't make laws for people,
which is why they don't make sense to you.
Another high percentage stacked
against you.

You don't wish people good luck,
and I want everyone to crash and burn
and be worse than me by comparison.
I lie when I talk about you.
I lie about a lot of people.

I dreamt we drove a car backwards
down a highway and they threw
every cop car in the state after us
and gave us a $5,000 dollar ticket
and even though we were on the
wrong side of the road
/wrong side of the law

I said, "**** no, officer and *******."

I've never seen miracles,
and I never hope to.
I just want to wear my black tie
and dark sunglasses
and make them think,
"he knows where God hides,
because he puts it there."

Common folk in a state of fear always,
and everyone has a revolution theory
or an apocalypse set-up,
and there's more than one way to skin a cat,
and no reason to keep to one method.

We all think so hard and none of us really ******* get anywhere.

I spend so much time not saying
"I don't care" & "I don't give a ****"
and people stay around but
my life feels shorter for small talk.
Like how I could've left this
idea written in 13 words
but decided to keep going
till I got here.

And here I thought you were fixed.
You shoved a few bottles of fixed
into your system
and called me because
I am helpless to help you.
This hopeless helplessness
and you were bleeding from
your mouth and all I could say

"I'm gonna miss you."

You're probably catatonic or dead
or comatose
with another 1 or your finger on send.
I'm sorry he didn't love you.
I thought you were better.

You and me had a lot in common.
Now it's probably just me and I feel empty,
and I hate you for this because the alternative
is no good, and I'm no good anyways
and I'm selfish here writing about me
but you're dead or I can't stop you.
What am I supposed to write about you?

You're not gorgeous, or funny,
you don't have a beautiful smile,
you're not silly or soft or kind
or kind of an ***.
You're just ******* dead by now I guess.

You should've been breaking hearts
in backseats and bathrooms
and writing novels for lovers to
commit to memory
or professors to loom over melancholic
and sad, ******* sad, ******* too sad to cry.

You're not amazing anymore.
You're probably dead.

I'm twelve tones of ****** up,
and you gave me hope,
and all these people keep coming to me
and I'm broken and lonely and ******* up
and I'm sorry I wasn't there,
I thought you were better.

I know you want me to think it's not my fault,
but here's the ******* kicker
[because I can kick the blame, but];
I still could've been there.
You're probably dead now.

You ******* idiot.
I want to feel sorry, but why?
Why? I hate you for this.
I hate you for doing this.
I hate you for doing this.
I just ******* wished you'd just
see that me and you deserved living
and I don't believe in ghosts
but now you're another demon
in my closet in my head over my shoulder
out where a god should be.

I knew I couldn't fix you,
and now we have that in common too.

I loved you. I'm so sorry I was so afraid to just say it. I was afraid this would happen, and now it has anyways and it was so ******* stupid. I've never ****** up so monumentally. I just didn't know. I swear if you had just told me sooner, I would've been there. I didn't hate you, I just wanted you to find someone else. I didn't hate you.

But now you've gone,
and you've left me here
and you're probably dead,
and even if you're a vegetable on blue sheets
a white corpse on the floor,
a demon in my red heaven,
a ghost under my bed,
a skeleton in my closet,
or the hand that holds the next
nail in my coffin steady as the tide,

Now, I hate you for this.

The pythons on the branch
and you were headed upstairs
to greet it, tongue first,
lips pursed
willing.

Wet chunks of shattered glass
singing through flesh,
singing in multiple octaves
howling in pain and you
took your hand away to
kiss serpents.

I reached out for you.
Furniture rising to the ceiling,
air escaping, but me and the
love seat float upward toward
a new heavenless home.
We see a new horizon.
We breathe not of our own accord.

I dropped a bag of free muffins
on your shins and the cat
freaked out on top of you
ran off, and knocked over your water.

You're such a ******* stiff
you might as well have
rigor mortis.

Gorgeous though.

So I tried to be nice,
but I laughed too ******* the inside,
and I'm probably
never apologizing.

If you're looking for one,
*******, buttercup.
I got fuel to burn
and I'm saving my remorse
for the people I've ****** over
worse
and you ain't topping that
totem pole.

You wonder sometimes, don't you,
often as well, but maybe when
you're in bed,
or
on public transportation.

You wonder how they all do it,
and how they all step like ants
to a rhythm without numbers.

You wonder how everyone else
can possibly stand all of this *******
nonsense and not just blow up
or snap and just lose their
******* minds.

Start fires and explosions and
**** prime ministers and presidents,
and cry and **** and protest the
meaninglessness of such a
cruel gift as humanity.

You wonder how everyone hasn't given up.

All the while,
everyone else wonders
when everyone else will
******* lose it too.