Wasting All Your Time

I would love to be your muse

but I just leave you bruised

You want to help mend my wound

by first swatting away my pessimistic thoughts.

Flybots that never die

but rather return revenge by stinging your creative fingers.

I hope the swollen mounds that are left behind can be mined

for fuel to use on your little tool, the pencil.

I’d rather that than while trying to fix my frayed edges

you find yourself slipping off ledges.

Deeper and deeper until you’re down with me.

With nothing but failure to breathe.

And nothing but retrospect to see.

We’d need something unattainable

and want nothing else except maybe the unspeakable

I’m torn between wanting to be awake and to sleep

either way my mind is wired to make my body weep

I’m so uninspired that all I can write about is this depression 

so self-indulgent I identify with people of disease 

I listen to Regina Spektor in the hopes that I’ll learn a lesson

on how to accept humanity and be spiritually at peace 

however I’m afraid I can’t afford that new lease

Maybe one day I’ll be great at something

and the shit that I create now will be looked back on with reverence found through rose colored microscope

I lowly doubt it 

but at least it’s a nice thought 

a cubic zirconium ring on the rotten finger of a dead run-away bride

Imagine a home
Where acoustics are perfect
In everyone’s room

I know it’s been thought up before,

but rib cages are aptly named

for the imprisoning way they frame 

the heart and all that pertains.

I can hardly stand the irony.

Another year trapped in a snow globe

Mother Dearest Nature crassly flips.

Bubble of double toil and trouble

Infects warm touch by frost biting finger tips.

White washed world is a wicked beast

That lover’s fight with the heat of their hips.

They don’t notice that Jack Frost nips at your nose

Aiming to crack your lips.

In a state of emotional limbo

clouds in the distance, and a dead libido

a sluggish sadness seeps into your coffee grinds

and oppresses your  pick-me-up when inevitably spilling on your tie.

and so your tongue is too tired

to animate your voice

slow, low, and monotone

Daria with a choked intellect

if one could dissect 

the bile in your mind

perhaps they’d find

your partial paralysis

and chemical imbalance

is caused by clots of plastic flakes

that mimicked snow in a globe

you broke as a child,

in anger at your youth

and how it was the reason you were disenfranchised

one might surmise

the condition behind your eyes

is your punishment

for taking your childhood for granted 

• Question: Shut up and make money here storylinker9[dot]com idiot - Anonymous
• Answer:

  

12 Apostles around a table
around a fable
and 1 is guilty

12 inmates on death row
under control
and one is innocent

Both groups would agree
on one simple fact
the best thing before sliced bread was the knife used to slice it with 

Back when Adam and Eve were first conceived 

the sky was white

 the bottom of heaven in sight.

And as each gorged 

on the fruits of Paradise,

unaware of a demise they had forged,

their delighted sighs

colored the sky

a light blue.

But because each original pleasure

of God’s failed endeavor 

no longer exists

the sky is gray discontent sighs

and the tornadoes are angry fists