The sick passion we have
Instead of practicing, we envy
We look at the arrogant one
Who brings us down
We scoff at his righteousness
We would love to call him out
Not to teach him his mistakes
But only to bring him down
His perfection: too blind in envy are we
To see his arrogance is that of his weakness
There could be fellowship in both of you
Yet instead we remain, stirring the tensioned brew

You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &

I've got a big day,
A big day planned
But it wasn't planned by me,
Or written by my hand

First I get up at 6,
To get ready for the day
And then I drive myself to school
And go to Band to play.

Then school starts at 8,
The "long dark of Moria"
When I finally get a break after lunch
You'd think I'd sing hallelujah.

But the work really starts at 1,
When I help set up for the meet;
Knowledge Bowl competitions are
Meeting at my school this week.

Finally it'll start at 2,
And my brain will be drilled for answers;
At 5:30, when the meet is done,
I'd be happy enough to dance--or

There's something going on at 6,
That I almost forgot about--
Practice for our biggest show
Choir and band go all out.

At last, eyes closing at 9,
I'll get picked up, I think
Though I drove myself, I'm not sure
How my parents planned everything.

If I survive my day today,
Then I should be alright
Exhausted tomorrow, when I still have
Half of these assignments to cite.

Please don't try and correct me.
I'm not broken. I'm maybe free-spirited and a little out-spoken but I've got methods that water would even soak in and when you confuse me with that ****** J.R.R. Tolkien just because I'm burning herbs that Gandalf would be smokin', I'm going to brush it off like you're just joking and I'll get back to the life that i'm continuously toking, kick it back like it's all easy stroking, become at one with nature like an invisible cloak and be that dream but still get awoken by the ground as if something is choking me by the hands of some celestial bloke and hence why i feel like evoking some people with words like they are subliminal pokes and hopefully I'll please whatever it is that had me initially provoked then.

Deep within the legend,
Lies the paradigm:
Concepts so vast,
yet eternally combined.
Certain ideas that ever-last
those who need it defined
but I can assure you that fate
Is pre-determinedly assigned
And it's up to you to gravitate
Toward where it can align.
In the grand scheme
Of this complex quantum design,
Is a beautiful theme
That could be depicted as divine.
Action begins with thought
That could not confine
What we all had sought
And what we had bore in mind.
Yet with that all under consideration,
We need to know how your reality is also mine
With some quantifiable explanation
That we'll eventually intertwine.
So due to your position
Throughout space and time,
Find the nearest mission
That allows you to further ascend or climb.