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LOOK, I made a thing

Tell me how good my thing is 

So I can EXPLODE 

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Working on it 

Sprinkling admonishments, as sincere as a kiss. No partial signs of aggression 

saddling the back of a cornered cat – 

Passive passive doormat, lying paralyzed in the cold, poking holes in the soles of a job well done

Forgetting antsy treading, leading to a forlorn threshold 

This means silent war; the start of a battle

Between closed lips 

An old favorite

Camel eyes unadorned, with a greeting I practiced seven years ago in a well-to-do bathroom

I am small like an ant

Silly

Silly and small

Chronically platonic, playing my face grotesquely, mustering up the sexually ambiguous

I am sorry, I am small

Silly

Silly and small

I take boat loads of glares and I cherish them deep, what they mean is mean is mean

I could have climbed back, truck-hidden, doped up on the grit; grimey trash bags of sneers snagging my back

I am sorry, I am small

Silly

Silly and small

Youth 

I embody an itch

Crawling around, my skin peels back, a perfect trap, a perfect warning, a more perfect feeling

It doesn’t run dry, it moves like the tide; the ebb and flow of life’s seduction

Each heave of intention pulls right back, troublesome but monumental, the ache is sweet, the rush is sweeter

Post-Most Things 

Pulled apart at the bone, this affliction is a miracle, saving us from restless thought

If only we could come out on the other side

The shrieking leads down a road to utter meaninglessness, but that right there means everything

Stop for just a moment to gaze at the blinding innovation perpetuated by the ideal 

That real is real

is real

Rejecting the Puppets

It’s the innate blindness that keeps me seeking. Something bigger to be a part of, being broken alongside brothers,

They feel the weight too

That’s why we connect, engaging an intellect with so much more power than the toxic simplicity we desperately cling to

To feel is to breathe, our people are oxygen

We play it off like it’s taboo; words seen as a shiv, plunging invasively into our sacred palates

But it is a quaint security to hold our adages, to embrace our first thoughts

It is choosing infinity over the disguised malice that is so easily woven into our existence

Time

Pejorative daydreams producing a maddening flutter, churned over in due time placating a beautiful rift.

What is the matter with time? 

If I go on a walk around a peculiar village shop, and I meet a girl with chin length hair and a mouth like spring,

What does it matter what time it is?