I'm feeling extra sensitive to the world today (./;)
like, almost crying to “Art is Dead” kind of sensitive,
like, almost crying to the giving of gifts kind of sensitive,
like, I don't know what to do with myself...
I never know what to do with myself.
It's a miracle I have anything written-
seeing as I doubt every word like they come from D. Trump
and erase as liberally as the bottom left corner.
Imagine I'm a tight rope walker:
my balance bar is the words I say I love
but do I really trust them enough to keep me afloat?
I spend more time standing at the start,
and with each step
anxiety moves me two more back-
and I can't get any help.
I drown in “My Dear Melancholy,”
sinking into my sheets as the music eats me
I'm no delicacy however, so it never really finishes-
just leaving me until the hunger cones
back to remind me of how little I'm worth.
Their words are sanctified,
my words are demons;
their words give purpose to life,
my words fall pointless.
Perhaps the time has come to hack off my legs,
break each finger - swollen to the size of piano keys,
cut open my chest and take out
It's time to replace them with those from artists with things to say.