I am a strange and cursed poet
delirious, destined, comprised
of a million litle shards of light
laying stabbed here,
alone, abandoned, punishment for pursuit
of a weird and perverse rite
over-reliant on nuggets from days gone by
what happened to the age where I used to so easelessly fly?
tell me, my angel, the love of my life
what do you make of this thing we call time?
for an enigmatic sort of maelstrom has overtaken my heart
and now I yearn for a world that does not exist,
that I *know* does not exist, has never, will never
in all of the atoms of my body
and yet they call out to you
burn in the depths of the night
two ragged scars on the back of my chest sobbing
for the fields in which we used to play the days away.
I want to tell you a story
of a girl named Lucine
and the many exploits of hers
which I've oft dreamed
but the encore came out of left field
for now I sit here among the tomatoes in my garden
and revel in a world
where such beautiful things can exist
underneath my fingertips, lithe as my skin-
despite the odds, are you and I kin?
her arms would feel lithe,
this goddess of mine,
but I have the feeling
I am proudly less than divine
the final day approaches swiftly.
I am nineteen now,
and I must be brave.
the time for hiding, cowering behind someone else is over;
there can be no other way.
damn it all! damn it all to the end!
why do I persist in this place, for some semblance of "friend"?
an expectation of returns on my dues?
all you pitiful monsters want me to become a recluse!
all these months I've wasted, collecting your facts
while on everything I've ever loved, so relentlessly shat
do you think me a pawn of some scripted fate?
I can get around without references, even if it means I'll be late!
stop pretending you care.
a perverse need to know,
an addiction to hear-say.
if the world shall stand against me,
and my right to exist as I am,
then I shall stand against it in equal measure.