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October 1, 2009

This is probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve written. It descends into self-parody, but I admit to having a sentimental attachment to it.


I am a manic hurricane hurtling in place towards the horizon.

But don’t I look at you like I see a new day?

My mind is a swirl of colors thrown into a washing machine.

Et cetera, et cetera, shanti, shanti, newsflash:

Judging from our look inside the eye, this perfect storm is now a tropical depression.

Only once my high is gone, I feel like crying, like buying,

but if my money’s run out, then, now and later, I feel like-


I just change with seasons.

I am greater than or equal to the caliber of the Soul of Sylar and Peter,

but all work and no play makes even this a dull pen.

I just noticed a painting in my house that I have never seen before, but I’ve seen it everyday that I’ve lived here; I have no home. I am my own home and those few close to me are but extensions.

Does that mean they’re extensions of my soul?

I have so many lines, so many ideas, so many thoughts, so much. Connections everywhere, like truth, an element. Everywhere. Everywhere. Nowhere; what’s the difference (when you zoom out enough). Everything is alive and connected and illuminated all at once and it’s blinding. How do you live under such a light? Everyone needs the night. Dark doesn’t exist merely to be defeated by the light. To think otherwise is unwise. Am I really the only one that sees (sees the genius of tha Carter)? I feel like I’m taking craaaaazy pills! Hahah-

Intuitive aptitude. I understand. I SEE YOU. You cannot hide. I cannot hide. But under these sheets, I am a mess. We’re trading blows, but for what?


Slow down, Gandhi, you’re killing me. I vomit gray, flashback and to and fro. The masses bid for my heart, but is it worthwhile to lose your heart to save your soul? Vice versa! Like John Locke, I’m Lost in a maze, therefore I am a-maze-ing.

And when my face doesn’t quite match my head, remember what Cee-Lo sang so soulfully. But who’s gonna save mine?

Ah, nevermind! I should accept that I am truly alone, make it my strength or whatever bullshit you all spout in your high school mind and your holiest quasi-education. You, with your hipster posse (would lap this up if you thought I were Derrida) and your self-righteous horse. I’m not tall enough to stand up to God. Don’t you see? The answers are all around us, though admittedly they’re nowhere. But they’re RIGHT THERE. One of us is blind, and one has left the cave. The world locks me in a cage. I have no mouth and I must scre-. Who am I kidding? They don’t need to take my mouth. What good does screaming at a wailing wall do? Also, the wall is made of bullshit.

You can’t possibly-; you all wouldn’t understand anyways.

And that’s the worst part.


From → Poetry

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