You remind me of a sad hand job.
Not quite what I wanted,
Nor what I signed up for.
You hurt a bit.
And I know I could do better myself.
Tag: writing
Empirical Inchworm
Inching by I sit beside a nauseous narcissist
Waving through the air
Reaching for a branch that does not exist
Hues of green
I can see the sweat beading on his forehead
He vomited all down the trail
As I held the measuring tape
Empirical Inch worm
Internal Thoughts as a Weirdo
I want to be treated like an endangered animal
I like her butt (it’s nice)
I heard him say “Not my beautiful mock chicken” as he screamed he grabbed for plastic that wasn’t his
I see there are more crows than trees in the cemetery
I like people that smell like cigarettes
I like to hug them
I think ‘I never liked her’ as the pleather chair she sits on squeaks
I don’t like to hug her
Holes make me uncomfortable
Hate me
Just hate me please
Hate my photos
My writing
My art
Make me feel worthless
Tell me I’m stupid
That everything I’ve done means nothing
Hate me so much that when you see me or think of me
It pains you inside
I want my simple existence to hurt you
That’s when I can relax
That’s when I know I’ve done it right
Pixel
Each time I drive I see pedestrians that are not there,
They seem so real,
But as soon as I approach they disappear.
Like the damp road has swallowed them whole.
When I focus on the road, the tops of the trees seem to swirl.
Like some sort of cursed entities,
Without the focus of my gaze their atoms may swirl and deform all they want.
It’s as if I am the glue that holds this universe together.
That my consciousness creates sense from utter nonsense.
Some times I just watch the road form in front of my eyes;
If you look hard enough it almost seems to be unfolding from nothing.
Pixel by pixel,
The road seems to say all we are doing is floating in a dark abyss.
It’s all just smoke and mirrors.
We are being deceived…
Well at least I am.
Simplicity
My favourite words consist of loaf, agave, grotto, and fuck.
The favouritism stems from their versitality.
You can have a loaf of agave,
You can be in a grotto of fuck,
And how fucking nice does a Agave Grotto sound.
I’d swim there, I’d eat a loaf of bread there, I’d tattoo ‘Agave Grotto’ right across my chest, and show everyone with fucking pride.
I don’t give a loaf what anyone thinks about my favourite fucking words.
I’m sorry they are not words like eloquence, or opulent, or silhouette.
I guess you can have a eloquent silhouette.
And maybe the opulent shine of her eyes matched her eloquent nature.
But are these words really practical ?
No.
In real life it’s not like poetry, if you tell someone their silhouette is eloquent, all you will get is a confused look in their eyes rather than an opulent shine.
If you say ‘You look fucking nice today’ they will understand.
Life is simple.
Only if you make it simple.
Agave.
Trashed Tuesday
Drinking can be a bore,
Vomiting in foreign toilets,
With strangers holding our hair.
Then thanking those strangers like they are the grandma you haven’t seen in years.
If we all just got stoned none of this would happen,
We’d just sail away from our problems,
Never looking back.
Putting condiments on an undercooked hot dog,
And then proceeding to eat the entire thing.
Even though you are vegetarian…
Oops…
Well maybe, let’s not get stoned.
How about we all just drink tea together in the woods?
We could all wear little hats,
It would be ever so cute,
No one would vomit.
No one would break their vegetarianism in a hungry rage.
It would be polite and quaint,
Until you realize you have all been drugged…
Walking up face down in the grass,
With no memory of what happened.
Just an unintentional high blur.
Or we could just go to church,
Breathe Jesus right into our lungs.
Like a drag from a holy joint,
We could all sing Hozier and have a grand old time.
Until the minister kicks us out,
Claiming we are disruptive to the service,
“It says ‘all welcome’ on the sign sir, I mean father…”
Well maybe not church, and defiantly not tea parties in the abandon woods.
What are we to do with ourselves then?
Get into border line criminal shenanigans?
Drink?
Like every other teen does?
Short
Basted
If my hands were udders
And my fingers teats
Would you milk me every day ?
Eastbound
Instant microwave eggs
Not what I wanted for my sweet sixteen
Category loaves
Infinity scarf
Doesn’t mean you’ll live forever
Dollar store eyeshadow
Small Town Effect
Rolling hills and drug deals
Mark my words
The back of a stop sign is no longer innocent
Salt
I’ve always wanted to be in a car crash.
There is something so settling about the way I would watch the car come at me.
My heart would pound and my feet would try to brake,
But something inside me would want to hit the gas.
To seize the moment and wreck us both for what we are.
The metal would wrap around me as the impact shook my tethered body.
The crunching sound would be almost too beautiful to focus on life.
And maybe,
Just,
Maybe death would come.
Maybe I would see just who pretends to care about me,
The people whom I barely know grieving over my lacquered casket.
Salty tears from their salty beings.
Fuck you.
Contrast
Sometimes I feel so fake, I almost doubt there is blood coursing through my veins. I am just an empty vessel floating through the abyss. Me, the only viewer of true life. Always watching life but never being the life itself.
Other times so human and so raw that I can conquer anything. So full that emptiness is almost unthinkable. I feel each heartbeat as it pushes the life through my veins. Each step I take valid and right; my existence matters and I am life itself.
Starrfishing 