I shrugged in sarcastic narcissism,
Of course everyone got the joke.
As a creature molded to analyze
I constantly try to self-replicate myself into the norm;
It’s safe, a nice comforting cocoon, the norm.
An obvious cliche stepford kitchen recipe
But the norm is always actualized from diversity
The new beginnings that created multiple personalities
Stages of metamorphosis to write down in history.
I am a masked face to pretend to relate.
It’s hard to begin to express the sheer frustration and depression I fall into when you leave. Although your body lingers, your mind has lost it’s way. The pathway to self-destruction on speed. A numbing embrace and a glimpse of a light, so you use. To keep a handy vial on hand, mimics the guidance of friends, pushing you away from everyone. And you do. Your self-confidence issues are portrayed, by the mean words you say, when you’re not you. How important do I weigh in the narcissistic world playing in everyone’s heads? What would you say if you were given the chance to conquer it all or, to be happy?
As a cockroach, the ugliest parasite of them all
I am free, but pointless
Black antennas and beady eyes, they consume
The world is on fire but the bug always prevails
A grim reaper of destruction and chaos,
What have I become?
A monster of death?
A watcher, a listener, a schizophrenic creeper?
To be an addict’s last witness and give out his dying wish
We all collectedly suffer;
To always be alone and afraid…
My miniature vault, a glass storage jar, sits on the table
In its own little spot, next to the monte carlo cigar box
As an object of character, it represents my freedom, my rebellion, my sweet descent
My little piece of sanity that keeps me contained
A late bloomer to the bud of the most contentious flower
I hear every poet’s favorite color is green
The walls are pounding,
Quick, loud beats that mimic my heart.
The room is always illuminated by the tv,
A reality of fiction and demons of temptation.
Where is our salvation?
Where is the harmony of perfection and ecstatic bliss?
They say that everything happens for a reason,
But I won’t stay here pretending that I don’t notice.
Am I a threat, a calculable mission,
A potential cause for confusion of emotion?
Oh God, I hope so.
I looked down, red caught in my peripheral vision
A few seconds passed of shocked contemplation
Mixed within the natural expression, was blood
A dreamer is
the medium to life that puzzles together
the miracles of the Universe.
He isn’t godly or holy;
He isn’t a wizarding character of fantasy.
A dreamer is a creator of hope;
and with hope,
Softly, somewhere, a piano sings
A whispering tune that I have never heard
It’s my hope, the sound of the keys is encouraging
My own fairy tale, just without the violation of words
And I find myself remembering, or at least believing, that
I could remember the place of collective self and happiness
It’s without Greed, the killer, the monster that will devour the world;
A plague that ravages you from the inside.
Legs shaking under the steering wheel, I hide it
Blue lights flashing in the rear-view mirror, an intrusion of the night, they hurt my eyes
A confusing warning, a paranoia sponging up the awkwardness
In that moment, I flash-forwarded to a million scenarios of what was in my pocket
The system is corrupt and weak
But we still believe it
We are abstract clouds that wander through the fields, their sheep
Somehow lost in this crossfire of a country’s desire to everything
There once lived a man who claimed he could fly.
He said he was a true pilot of practiced skill,
Also known as the difficult type, but he was loved by us all;
and their colorful words and phrases depicted him well.
This man loved, as so many romantic men do,
Like his whole body was roasting on fire.
The acrid smoke clouding his judgement;
The heavy heat making living unbearable.
A gift was offered, it was long ago;
A gift that everyone has forgotten,
But the man who flies can see the world,
He’s become a hoarder of memories that don’t belong to him.
He suffers now, afraid of what he might remember;
Because she doesn’t.
How many lives are allowed in one sense of time?
If there is a favorable notion why you hold them so close,
Then, it’s okay to divulge the available details.
Butterflies, how do they fly?
Little velvet wings that shine like stained glass in the sun.
Such a delicate life;
An explorer of illusion made for beauty and wonder.
The Monarch of the tree paints it a fiery orange;
Orange has always been my favorite color.
The battle for the tree is illuminating;
It’s so remarkable, this insignificant magnificence of a whisper