|I do not guarantee customer satisfaction on anything that isn't poetry.|
|Ahh, my DD from days of yore, when life was simple and people traversed by sitting on large rolling boulders and to keep ourselves amused we shouted obscenities at spotty toads and other detestable amphibians.|
A Poem For Terrible PeopleI am easily twenty pounds overweight,A Poem For Terrible People by allofmyconfusion
and my soul is a couple hundred under.
Everyone else has this heavy thing
that sits in their stomach and tells them
that they’re alive. I think the only reason
why mine hasn’t floated out my ear
yet is because my throat is blocked
by a coal of self hate. Maybe that is
the thumping I hear, my spirit
screaming. I always thought
it was my heart beat.
I can’t tell you why I am here,
and I can’t begin to explain who I am
because I know I’ll start to cry,
and I am trying to save up my tears
for something that’s socially appropriate
to cry over. Like a mass murder
or uplifting trending video on facebook; not,
definitely not because your succulents
aren’t arranged in the way
you wanted them to be.
I’m an ametur gardener
buried half alive in my own
half hearted attempts at having some
effect on this world. My arm
reaches out and paints my own
plot pot with a chevron design
in Robin’s egg blue.
God, I wis
|Talented fellow deviants want your love! Give it to them! (Yes, in some cases even literally)|
The Museum with no ExitThe Museum with no Exit
A disturbed, delightful journey
Down this most endlessly mesmeric of halls
For every person that gives up hope
Another portrait appears on the walls
Ah! Superfluously sickening
Tell, how many times have you been here before?
I swear I’ve seen your likeness on canvas
Do you still wish to finish your grand tour?
All hail! Ergo, envoy from Hell
I’m beginning to suspect you’ve never gone
Away from home, within a picture frame
You are a painting, your cycle is done
NaPoWriMo: Day 8I was told
to slice through the thickest
of scar tissue this evening.
Let all my inner demons
fall to the floor
& write them out
in my own black blood.
It’s not red anymore,
even though needles
& the bruises
laid out like war-lands
on my arms
I don’t think it ever was,
My mind is a mess
of free versed insecurities,
cat’s eye marbles,
& untamed forest fires-
I still don’t have the nerve
to slice open my skin
& bleed for her.
^ Reading Dostoyevsky's 'The Idiot' in a park whilst using makeshift furnishing.|
Allow me to begin honestly. I am unfinished, like the rest of you. Perhaps even barely a beginning.
I was raised on soul butter, in a world where some larders are just crumbs.
I have been writing profusely to navigate the world. My pages are my sails.
My own sea is one that has been diagnosed with mental disorders and the ships are all flooding.
Simply put, I am a human before I am a writer. I will drown for you in my head if that's what it takes.
Why do I do it this way, you ask?
To involve everyone in filling themselves with something other than things or careers or loathing or injustice.
To expose what we conceal in closed walls or wars or muscle or in that crackly pile of leaves that are our memories.
Love and truth, let the rest come full brunt and hurt me as it does.
Now a question for you: Why not?
"The world is paradise, and as soon as everyone realizes this, paradise will be established across all the world tomorrow." -Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov.