#50 – writing this dulled me

hell is complacency
uniformity like an eternity of
computer light occupying your face
cubicles like microcosms
of prison cells, mental wards
to lock yourself away in from
your creativity, imaginations, ideas…

the color gray becoming the
only color you see
your life defined by the same screens
of the same papers and lines and
lines and only ever lines
working because you exist to serve

the only conversations you make
are small, finite, minuscule
as shallow – no, more shallow –
than a teardrop of water
your thoughts have been repeated
a trillion times over in the
same patterns with no. change.

the same mindless
murmuring drones heard
with voices low with how
drained the volume of their lives became

every food – flavorless.
every noise – pure static.
every scent – subdued.
every sight – blurred, muddled.

you chose this.
you chose puppetry.


#49 – juvenile angst

do i not have the right?
to be tired?
to be exhausted?
to be depressed?

do i not have the right to be tired?
because they believe i am young?
and being young means naive?
and being naive means childish?

do i not have the right to be exhausted?
because they believe i am invincible?
because they think i can never tire?
because they think i can’t be
stressed because of my age?

do i not have the right to be depressed?
because i am young and supposedly
don’t know the meaning?
because i am young and supposedly
selfish and ungrateful and vain?
do they believe i can’t be depressed
because they don’t think i look at
myself every day and hate myself?
and wonder what’s wrong with me?
and wonder why i am a freak?

do i not have the right to feel emotions that they believe are
limited to the so-called mature?
are my feelings invalid?
am i absolutely worthless?

because i believe that.
so help me,
i know i can’t be worth anything

#48 – there’s molten gold pouring from her eyes

and thus a fire burned in her eyes
everyone was terrified
was it anger?
was it passion?
was it ambition?
no one knew
but everyone was awestruck
she was terrifying
so she was respected
so she was unknown
so she was invincible

did they never once think?
did it never occur to them?
that her fire wasn’t passion
or anger
or emotion
did it never occur to them
that her soul
her essence
her being
was burning away?

#46 – i saw her in shades of blue

i saw her in shades of blue
she was covered from head to toe
she wasn’t like the sky,
an infinite blue which brought philosophers to their knees
but was the ocean, so much, so full,
so empty, so lonely

she was drowned in blue
i suppose i drowned too
she claimed lives
i was no exception
she would be a dark blue,
almost black, in some days
almost impossibly dark
and all encompassing
almost impossible to see
she would be the lightest of blues
so bright, with smiles
like cotton candy clouds
she wore her shades of blue
underneath everything to everyone
but me

2.11.17 //#45 – really, honestly sick

coughs that sound like cries and
god — oh god — it’s forcing out your lungs
that refuse to rip itself from its own cage — how self-destructive!
who wouldn’t want to escape
their own cage?
with a nose that stings with every attempt to be free of
pure disgust the body has made
at its own illness and
there’s a pain right where you can’t completely get rid of
and there’s an incessant wooziness
in your head because you can’t
think of anything else other than
pain in your throat, mouth, nose, soul…
it’s deafness in one or two ears
and blurriness in your eyes from,
what, tears? fatigue? sweat?
oh, the sweat! one moment you
feel every ore open and cry and the
oil sticks everywhere and
the next, you need fifty blankets to
stop feeling like you live in antarctica
every morning, your mouth feels like
it swallowed a corpse
and drool, and snot, and sweat
make a home on your body
your throat scratches itself, is constantly itchy
your body melts into green puddles
your thoughts aren’t organized
bathing only mildly makes you feel less gross
you still go to school
(that’s probably where you got sick in the first place)
because you can’t miss a day but
you can’t work, can’t think
you are a complete servant to your disease

2.9.17 // #44 – i forgot what i was going to write about

it’s sleeping without dreams
waking up trying desperately
to chase through your brain
for just a sliver of what you
dreamt up

it’s grasping for that one thought
you were going to say in the
hopes of sparking conversation
someone changes the topic
and you remember mere minutes later
(and you forget it even quicker)

entering a cluttered, stuffy room
to grab something, finding something else
and not getting what you intended
but forgetting it anyway

it’s a sentence you believe could have knocked over dominoes
of politics and world issues and
hatred and fear and anger and
cruelty that extends to the stars
and demolishes galaxies, but…
you forget the words to craft the sentence

it’s an idea that’s (probably, maybe)
groundbreaking and inspirational
new, bright, a mix of new colors
and a sentence unspoken, unwritten
and you think the world would fill
the air and the space with mention and
praise and obsession over your idea
and you forget, or trash the idea as
not. good. enough.

thinking of something to look up
on the internet
that could change your life
and the entire perspective of humanity
and you quickly open up a
search engine except
you forget what you wanted to find

it’s that one word that might
change your entire essay
or novel or prose or poem
that would’ve been the
icing on the cake of your sentence but
you forgot the word anyway
and must live with mediocrity

it’s the thought of you
that i can’t quite pinpoint
and i don’t completely know or label
but it’s different
and i don’t know
i forget anyway