vanity raped my pen


i see this world, guilt-stricken
	forced to chew my words 25
times before i spit them back out onto
a ghostwhite monitor,

not quite forced so much as self-driven
to make do with an imagination that far exceeds
its brain capacity,

sometimes i’ll go into a phase where i start to
read other people’s thoughts,
looking for similarities in style or rhythm, and i have yet to find any.

“funny how i never thought of you as poetic”
something a highschool teacher says to you when you
awake from six months of dozing through the same bullshit
routine day in day out and still have something
decent to show for playing the part of a vegetable.  i used to be a carrot stick when i was younger,
or a stalk of celery who had nothing to admit to, but after they ate me alive day after day
i started getting comfortable with photosynthesis.

“funny how i never thought of you as poetic” there it is again for emphasis,
well i’ve never been one to give a fuck about what you think,
much less eat my fingers simply for the sake of
sounding like i know what i’m talking about,
to fake everyone into saying to themselves,

“he’s an educated man who knows what’s good for him”

no i used to sit here and drivel on forever about how lonely
the sun is all by itself in the middle of several strangers,
and how the moon acts like a searchlight when i’m having sex
underneath it during some random summer midnight rendezvous with
a girl whose face i couldn’t even see,
trivially universal things like that.

never had much of a fancy for alluring intellectualisms, that’s not to say
i don’t use big words a lot (they mean the same thing anyway), when
readers usually hate to be outsmarted by the writer himself, pompous
individual with a knack for catchy phrases that stick on your head
á la semen in the shower or a birthday cake with some icing stolen from the sides,

just ramble say these fingers, type any word your puny little
mind can dream up, just say what you really mean instead of trying to cover
it all in stupid cheesy rhymes that still don’t make sense
to this day.

what are you, some kind of poet?




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