It hurts to know
i'll always glow
in ways, i'm special
a slightly cracked shell
is how i feel
makes me wanna kneel
to those around me
like them i wanna be
aware of who i am
alternate choices spammed
i see myself trying
your eyes cause me crying
no sensuality
confused sexuality
we all exist inside
filters of illusion reside
Pieces you shatter
to me that matter
your response after
creeped out flatter
too far i go
more than i know
no more time to waste
stay put in your place

It’s so odd to think that you’ve wasted a day.
Yielded to submission,
Succumbed to the norm,
Accepted and embraced ones mediocrity—
Have we reason to be fond of hollowness?
No pride, null of shame,
And yet so full of—what?
Emptiness and void of anything,
The dim twilight we are warned against,
How hard is it to try in the least?
If failed, then one shall still progress!
The only one who’s failed
Hasn’t even tried at all,
The one who hasn’t succeeded
Has his precious recollection.
I’ll tell you,
Succeeding has no place
In *living.

I want to set you on fire. Take heed;
Don't play with desire
Life could be on the wire
With time growing tired,
and your love not invested.
But I digressed and just jested
at the idea of investment.
As if I haven't stressed this:
Take your love and your time
and invest it,
before time and desire
arrest it.

How am I supposed to know
How I should spend my time?
No one ever has stopped to show
Direction, or specific sign.

On top of the world, without no recognition.
Lonely on top when your there's only one position.
You must recognize that I am not in best condition.
The toll to stay the strongest has took a vast commision.

If you don't understand me then you must be standing under me.
A life of isolation is bringing out the beasts in me.
A rebellious cast out kid will take these trophies home.
Life is bottoms up so i live up on a throne.

you repugnant *******!
you keep me wondering
just why god created you

they say He has a reason
for everything. Why he created you
I still don't understand. but lately
i wonder if you were created
just so i could have this day
to myself.

full of filth, creepy as hell
disgusting at the sound
of your belly being squashed

but for the sake of justice,
i sprayed you with my favorite
perfume.
not because i have a pint of love for you
but because every opportunity to end your life
should be fully taken advantage of.

i watched you die. it was slow.
first your legs uncoordinated,
you scrambled for the walls
but they failed you. they did fail you.
then you choked. i could almost hear it
you thought of the darkest place
to dig your grave. but not on my marble floor

i watched you die. i wanted it faster
but the sweet smell of the Hugo Boss
and the death of a scape goat...
a scape roach,
was bearable.

maybe you deserve a soundtrack
or a more befitting burial in a bin
but a poem for you is totally undeserving
save for my joblessness.

what have i to do with these grips,
these squared, white knuckles
holding tight to handle bars?
what have i to do with these empty stares,
eyes void of truth?

these "fill-in-the-bubble, A B or C, music only reaches the ears" types of humans
attempting to tell me how to carry out my existence,
attempting to tell me the most efficient
practical
mindless ways to die?
attempting
to tell me
to show me
the most rewarding ways
to die.

what have i to do with these sculptors
who try and quantify the rain,
who try and evaporate
the sun?
what have i to do with these ideas of perfection, of what is best?
these assumptions of false fulfillment,
these preludes to orderly, institutionalized chaos
and contempt?
what have i to do with all of these cardboard boxes
which cannot differentiate between being filled
empty
open
closed
soft
rough
dry
loved?
what have i to do with those who cannot detect their own storms,
their own energy waiting to explode?
what have i to do with one shade of blue?
what have i to do with feet that cannot move,
knees that cannot bend?
what have i to do with white houses
black cars
trimmed bushes
a front porch?
what have i to do with stationary?
what have i to do with these wings
unless they are free to flutter?
what have i to do with structure
with corners
with average
with plain?
what have i to do with boredom
with settling
with insignificant breath?

what have i to do with waste?
what
have i
to do
with waste.

You dream of living:
Broken is your favorite word;
Yet whole and too young,
You have never grown so strong,
And then fallen far
Far enough to face your fear,
To dash all your hopes,
Taste mockery of defeat
And feel death's cold sting.
You wondered why you were cold;
You were just so young
Too young to feel a thing.