Wraith With Pen In Hand

Is it nature?
You mean like how
mother wolves push runts away
to die in the snow
so they won’t weaken the pack?

Is it humanity?
You mean like how
Andrea Yates drowned her kids
while I was thirteen
and alternating KTRH
with The Sorcerer’s Stone on tape?

Is it beauty?
You mean like how
Marilyn Monroe
had it all figured out?

Is it love?
You mean like how
it’s a chemical reaction
and didn’t matter
until rich people got bored one day?

Is it pain?
You mean like how
my shoulders hurt
from going to the gym?

It’s words on a page,
arranged in a pattern.
That
is
all.

My kicks come from
the stupidity of strangers.
Drink your handle.
Stay the night.
Oops, it broke.
Oh well.
Nine months later
where am I?
Kicked back and winking.
Keep on
burning
and drinking
and fucking
and gambling.
You watch Maury.
I watch you.

I have got a problem
with perception…
mine is plausibly flawed.
I seek purity.
There is none.
And I embody vile.

People are fooled by arrogance.
It blinds them-
whether theirs or mine.
It is armor:
shiny,
impressive,
frictionless.

Hollow.

Knowing this,
I am apart.
Being rare
doesn’t always feel good.

Seeing the brand new
persecutions
that come my way
every day
is a ritual bigger than breakfast.

I sure do think
the world is against me.
Because it is.
Evolution, folks.
Check your batteries.

I hate fighting,
but bad porn
sometimes draws my attention.
Dig?

Don’t tell me life gets better.
Rappers got me first.

You know
what disappoints me?
Just
about
everything.

THAT’S fuckin’ poetry.

They all say be honest.
But if I threw up
the third finger from the left
all the times it felt true…
maybe they’d change their minds.
I don’t want to help you…
but at least I haven’t killed you.

And take your baggage with you.
Oh dear,
oh me,
I’m so so sorry.
We’re all so impressed.
Your suffering is the worst,
the most magnificent.
I’m changed.
I really am.
You’ve taken me,
and molded me.

I’m harder and more hateful.

Pray, carry on.

I love sideways denials.
I guess you made me do this…
don’t get mad at me.
It’s them.
It’s them.
It’s them.
It’s them.
I ain’t done nothin’.
True dat:
You ain’t.
Sleep soundly.

I still fight the fight-
sometimes.
Others I just can’t get up for.
Why?
The question nags me.
Why should I?
What’s the point?
We all die in the end,
alone and old-
premature or not.
Everyone dies.

Who am I?
Suburbia.
Who am I?
Middle middle class.
Who am I?
Product of a home
that should have broken years ago.
Who am I?
Shitty job.
Who am I?
Obsessions.
Who am I?
An iron grip.
Who am I?
Cynical.
Unproven.
Unchallenged.

Boring.