If I dared write
what’s in my heart,
what’s on my mind,
what drives me on,
I’d attract ants,
and bring bees
to the smell...
I see you, not as words —
not a single quote
or chapter — but as
an unfolding story.
And I love reading the story
that you are —...
"I want to be a writer…"
she said, her solemn
six year old eyes
trained upon the
rumpled by life writer.
"But you can do...
Fractals in the pathos
True religion fractured
The wisest men grey most
And with the wingspan of some pterodactyl
We’re too afraid to stay...
"Everyone thinks you’re so weird,"
It’s something I hear often,
And it’s eternally vexing,
I can never learn to master myself,
To avoid that eternal stigma.
I can’t even figure out,
What the hell makes me “weird,”
It can’t be because of my unconventional tastes,
Because in those that are so much prettier than I,
"Weird," becomes "cultured," "quirky," and "exotic,"
Surely humanity isn’t so shallow,
That they’re more forgiving to the attractive people,
But even so why is the unconventional a bad thing?
Why so much stigma against liking what we like?
From what I’ve seen of conformity,
It’s just so boring,
Skull fuckingly idiotic,
And mentally and spiritually crushing,
Why be myself,
When I can throw myself into the meat grinder,
And crapped out a uniform, tasteless patty,
Something that is mass made,
Must be infinitely better,
I’d rather be that weirdo,
Than to live that bitter, tasteless, life,
A life that is ultimately unsatisfying,
The living equivalent of jacking off,
I’ll gladly hang out with the other weirdos,
They at least know who they are,
And they know what they want to do,
They live as themselves and love others who do as well,
It’s sad that those are “weird” qualities,
But that does so explain our world.