I’ll Ask You Again.

How do you tell the difference between who you are and who you’re trying to be?

While I attempt to be a good person, I can hardly call that practice.
Practice produces results.
I produce reasons.
I produce excuses and draw up rationales.

Perhaps, I could lend a hand to someone if I ever took a moment from patting myself on the back.

I won’t,
For it’s an adaptor.

Adapted from what, I’m unsure, but the comfort is intoxicating, regardless.

That word seems fitting — without regard.

It’s almost as if it was named after me,

Or perhaps my conceit is rearing its lovely head.

It’s not,
I can always tell.

Who I am is not the question here: it’s”What am I?”

One could argue I am human, but that doesn’t explain my gene pool,

A pool created from the womb which bore Titans.

I’m surrounded by the weak.

It’s inescapable, following me wherever I go like a shadow in the desert sun.

Forced to lay low, my existence annoys even me,

But this annoyance is nothing compared to the contempt I feel towards those who plague me.

Feeble attempts at nuanced lives with an uneducated sense of morality.

Here’s the damning catch, though,

Only humans live by such trifling things, yet they audaciously claim superiority.

Perhaps that’s what I respect in the bunch,

The way they imagine and play as god.

It’s almost as if their ignorance has become an admirable trait, a true fantasy for my kind.

It must be, for why else would I ever attempt living as a monkey. Still,

There is one inexplicality, something that goes unanswered no matter how much I chase after it:

If I am trying to be a good person, what does that speak of the being in the present? Now, I’ll ask you again,

What am I?

A Dash of Salt

Always ready to react,
But too poor a planner to be preemptive,
I lead a life of disarray
And that is all that keeps me organized.

You can claim me a contradiction,
But then that’s all I’ll ever be,
And you could add a dash a salt,
But you would only harm your health.

I am one of a kind,
In that I’m really not special.
Just a boy with (two) hands,
A dead phone,
And a pencil.

It’s during these minutes where the seconds stand still that I am truly met with comfort.
The silent shakes of the house ring like music to my ears. Just like a softly sung lullaby,

It allows my thoughts to crash like oceans.

“Tortured Artists Are No Fun”

With each press of a button, it feels as if the keys themselves were bamboo shards designed to splice my nails. The glaring light laughs as it chips away at my cones and rods, my lobes and thoughts. My health is in decline, but not because of a lack of care. I very carefully deprive myself of life’s necessities. One would assume I am attempting to achieve enlightenment, as if I am fasting or appeasing, but such trifles are fleeting. No, my goal is much grander, one that foresees the gain beyond the pain. I merely conduct my life in desperate hopes to be of sufficient entertainment to the suns. 

Hardly Arbitrary

What are these unfamiliar thoughts,
And how dare they pull upon my seams?
I tried to choke them out with smoke
But in return, they’ve only darkened.

Why do I walk this earth?
What would happen if I stood still?
Would the winds that pass me by
Proceed to cleanse me of its dirt?

Arbitrary. Arduous. Aardvark.

Does it even really matter?

Capricious. Conceited. Dumbfounded.

Does it even really matter?

How It Tastes

Take me as I am.
Please,
Don’t see what lies beneath.
If you were my friend, you’d understand
There are things you shouldn’t see.
I will be your saving grace,
I will be your fallen angel,
All depending on how it tastes
And if I’ve chewed enough to swallow.

Full on selfless endeavors,
I exist to please creation.
I exist to be a prophet,
And I swear it on my word.

In a Goldberg machine of another’s design,
I’m not one for pointing fingers,
For that would draw too much attention.
I only guide the lines; I only guide the eyes,
Making sure that no one peeks at what exactly lies beneath.

Please,
Take me as I am.

Penniless & Unknown

My idols were buried in the gutter,
penniless and unknown.
Also, pumped with drugs, or at least as I imagine,
with an affinity for seclusion,
(or was it delusion?)
Perhaps it was karma
granted by their death,
or rather, an appreciation for beauty
and an ignorance of art.
For myself to aspire to die the same death
should surely deem me as incapable.
Am I even an artist,
or do I like to play pretend?
Did rehab kill the poet,
or were their words misunderstood?
These type of thoughts often surface merely to pass the time
After all, all life decisions were made for me before my time.
I will not rest; I will not sleep;
I will not cease to seize; I will not eat
until I live inside of clocks
alongside all my idols.

Uncool.

Smoke signals rise rapidly,
But wait, where’s the fire?
Optic outrage prevents processing;
My eyes will not retire.
Tongue twisters act arrogant,
But so do all the liars.
Ill-informed pride pageantries
Doom me by attire.

Introspection

I’m quick to point a finger that’s not in my direction
This truth will only linger as long as this high confession
You’d think I’d go & tinker since it’s something that I’d mentioned
But deception is a ringer at playing my mind’s perception
Introspection shows projection as rejection of conventions,
But inspection turns attention to an object of objection.
I don’t need a new injection, I just need a reelection.
I’m stressin’ from correction & testin’. They’re guessin’ perfection
& that makes life depressin’. It sucks.
There’s no such thing as luck, at least not anymore.
Every time I’ve had enough, they respond with “There’s plenty more.”
I tried to write & open up, & they responded with twenty more.
I’d make the factories combust, but they’d construct so many more.
Until the ends the end, it’s hard to comprehend the trend.
We do just like our friends & all our friends are told to spend.
All our friends are told to spend every minute like pretend & to act like they fit in; It’s sad to say I’m one of them.
Introspection shows projection as expression of conceptions,
More inspection gives attention to an object of objection.
This truth will only linger as long as this high confession;
I am quick to point a finger that is not in my direction.

Brain-Dead Masochist

In despite of my mind’s perspiration, I can’t write or find inspiration. I’ve tried it free hand and pre-planned, and now I fear my aspiration is near its expiration. I’ve spewed on a page, written enraged, gone for a drive, & gone on with my life. I’ve lightened my edge and paid for a buzz; I guess nothing’s left except to give up. Is this really the end, and is it that easy? And should I pretend that this all isn’t cheesy, isn’t cliche? Another unheard author plagued by “What did he say?” To choose to pursue this sick obsession will surely alert me to the big questions: do I fight for it, or call it quits and then proclaim I’m pacifist? Do it fight for it with all my grit, adorned in shame like a masochist? In the end, it doesn’t matter ’cause I’ll always choose the latter like I and the Mad Hatter were cut from the same pattern. Even if I spend the rest of my days never producing another text or a page, I’ll continue to try, persuaded by my brain, ’cause I don’t have to write, but I can’t become sane.

Just a Thought

Though nature is boundless, I still haven’t found this purposeful healing I’m supposed to be feeling.
I can pull out a map and see how its flaps put it in perspective, though it’s not that effective.
There are many directions awaiting perfection, but a compass can break and leave a world in its quake.
They say “Don’t forget your birth on this Earth,” but is that to make me humble, or is that to make me stumble?
The world’s enlightening and way too frightening; to leave all that is familiar is awfully peculiar.
These blue moon dreams certainly gleam with curious wonder like lightning and thunder.
If I could gather the nerve, I’d finally serve my inner desires and grow 50 feet higher.
Sadly, this was just a thought, apparently, all for naught, for I will stay inside my box while I carefully check the locks.