I have an unquenchable headache.
My eyes burn and throb.
I can feel my bones as if bruised.
What do you want from me?
The answer becomes clear,
silvery as if illuminated by moonlight.
I refused to believe it for so long.
And those trickeries,
so reminiscent of those movies and books
that spoke of love and happiness and despair.
Trickeries isn't a word.
That's what they tell me.
That's all I can hear when of all things
this is truly the most irrelevant.
So did I make a wrong turn?
As those poets say,
did I lose myself along the way?
What pitiful babble.
What nonsensical bullshit.
Intellectual manure.
And why amI supposed to speak of my loneliness in the fine and refined language?
Supposed to tell them all about it?
Once I thought there was honor,
spilling my blood upon a page.
Killing myself, oh so slowly, so you could read all about it.
I don't think I was wrong.
But who wants honor anyway?
Who wants regard and fame and prestige,
if it's only source comes from you?
That general, unreachable, can.do.no.wrong, you.
I've never been in this for the wrong reasons,
but you've talked and muttered and screamed and whispered,
and I hate the sound of whispers.
And I've heard every last word,
and I've felt every nuance of change.
Let me speak my language now, for a second.
I'll post it up on a banner,
so that I can see it.
As an extension of myself where I'm most comfortable.
Come and let my words paint a face.
Come and let them inspire passion in you,
Let me inspire you hatred, disgust, mirth, disdain, joy, ecstasy, love, pain, madness.
Let make that mask of indifference fall from your face for even a second.