Crawls in rhythm, sweats like spring

I've been letting others tell me what to feel.
I've been leading on naive young boys, I have
been allowing pretty girls to stomp on my face,
digging their stilettos into my eye sockets, lying
 in the gutters. I've been lying more
than usual. I have been neglecting my true words,
committing myself to the insane voice I am writing
 or committing myself to the objective,
sugar-coated editorial columns.

I have been allowing myself to be the image of lost,
voiceless girls, who steal all they can. They take my hair,
take my eyes, take my clothing,
and makeup away, take my body away, take all they can yet
still, they are not me. I am still somebody.

I am a "pretentious bitch" by intellect, you just buy the title.
you wear chanel lipstick, get your nails done and pose.
Yet, I am still better than you.
You go home, broken, alone, whored out and puking.
As do I, but I come home to significance. 

I am someone, unlike you.
I have a voice, I have intellect, I have art, you do not.
Your type usually turns me on.
And you have just enough intelligence to grasp this concept,
I hope you cry at night.

Futile

It seemed to last for hours
It seemed to last for days
This lady of the flowers
and her hypnotic gaze
 
philosophical thought
and ego, showers me with compliments,
my intellect, my face, the same ones he
must have peddled up and down the
streets, different girls, same reaction.
Behind the mind, there is a sex drive,
all I want is conversation, keep your
intentions pure.
But are they truly?
What do you want of me?
I just want honesty.

Friends are better friends with jealousy,
deceit, lies and beauty. Every comment
laced with bad wishes, "You're vile,
worthless,"
Why am I always trodden upon?
Because.
I am unworthy of being anything more
than a doormat, on which the graced
few get to whipe their feet, before retreating
inside to bathe in their glory. I'm not a failure.
My existance isnt futile. I get what I deserve,
I get more than I deserve, I take, take, take,
indulge, in much more than I deserve.

Words are Not Enough.

Words are speed bumps, arbitrary symbols chosen to describe a fleeting idea. The mouth, quite sadly,simply cannot run as quickly as the mind, the mechanical formation of the sounds in conjunction with the mental arithmetic of creating grammatically-correct sentences slowdown the process. In the translation from thought to words, ideas are lost, and we find ourselves articulating mere fractionsof the original wholes. Words are simply crumbs of the once freshly baked bread in our minds. Our desperate attempts atreaching a complete understanding are ill-considered; we communicate just enough to survive, yet never enough to reach parity, we find ourselves sickly satisfied with this mediocre contactand listlessly gamble the chance of having our message lost and misinterpreted in the tangled mess of wires in another’s mind. Unlike words, thoughts are fixed, intangible and therefore far from the reach of the hands of another, unable to be stolen and manipulated, yet easily lost within the confines of your ownmind and forgotten, left hiding in an unoccupied drawer inyour head. All spoken, and moreover, written word, is a futile attempt at trying to catch up with one’s thoughts. It simply cannot be done, at least not in this state of consciousness. 


May 15, 2010
3:45am