Broken headphones by nessieblack09 (deviantART)
Shuffle and Replay
Sometimes (a lot of the time),
my favorite part
of each day
is when I’m ignoring the world
Because sometimes (a lot of the time),
it’s nice to pretend
I’m not me
and I’m not really sitting here
Yeah brah, I’m mad.
If you say this “dream” is “cute”
one more time,
I promise I
will bite your hand.
I will listen to
in my head
like the snarling,
yipping monster in my head.
Think it’s all a game to me?
Hold out your hand;
I’ve got a shinning knife.
I love Roulette.
You think I wanted to
all these bottles,
crumple all the pages,
light them up,
watch them burn like
they were only meant
(Use your own damn bones;
they’re cold and brittle enough
up in a snap.)
I drone enough
like a wind-up toy
(I’m sure of it),
but when you’re sure
it’s going to pour,
you tend to roar
I make ground shake
with my reverberating lexis;
I scream my voice into the earth
like its made of stone.
I’ll make my mark
like a cave painting—
you’ll hear me in
singing like the buffalo.
Don’t think I won’t
into your heart.
You’ll speak my words aloud but
the voice you’ll hear
It’ll rumble like volcanoes;
I’ll shine through you
like a billion exploding stars.
Call me crazy, but
to kill my monsters
(to kill all your monsters)
I gotta stab this sword into
the gut of all Eternity.
And it all begins with you;
saving the world
begins with you.
On the Burning Away
A siren screams and
radiates back the screen
of my black and white, black static
I never see,
I never ever see kaleidoscope colors,
never a light-bright cornucopia of
my ten-year-old, happy-go-lucky dreams.
Those stupid fucking reveries
blew up in brimstone fire when
I learned there’s no such thing as Faraway
and you can’t sew stars into your pockets.
[The fruit of a thousand apple trees would
taste better if the snake would nicely mention
the seeds are made of cyanide.
Instead my eyes go wide
as I lean back and hack
for air while I wait to breathe again.]
It all fades together in the same old
coffee-drenched, psychotic robotic days.
The air smells like burning plastic and
we’re all electric blinking lights trying so damn hard
to make math problems into Green jobs because
no one gives a shit about paper anymore.
Libraries are just graveyards for all the little children’s dreams.
When I grow up I’ll keep a junkyard
so I can save out-of-date non-collectibles
that everyone’s forgotten and
everyone thinks are just myths
and legends of a time that never was.
(I’ll keep books in my basement and
become a relic just like them.)
I’ll wrap myself in armor
and scream stories at computer screens
the people of the world can hear me when I say
I’m saving them…
I’m saving them…
I just want to save you.
Sometimes it feels as though you could stomp your feet and make earthquakes erupt from fault lines coming from your insides. Sometimes it feels like mountains in your lungs are crumbling into oceans, making sea foam turn into hurricanes. Sometimes you think if you were to open your mouth those hurricanes would escape your lips in a supernova. Sometimes you’re sure if you were to prick your finger, your blood would run India Ink instead of plasma red. And then suddenly, all at once, you realize someday you will, most certainly, burst into a thousand, shining letters because you are made of thundercane stories.
…because currently I’ve been replaying it fifty times on my mp3 player. I’m slightly tweaked like that.
I’m gonna go put my goggles back on and pretend I can fly.