Describing You?

Never fear being
out-casted.

Never fear being
different.

Be as weird
as you can be.

So strange,
you scare
the shit
out of them.

Soon,
they'll have no idea
how to deal
with you,
let alone their
misconstrued
judgments
of you.

They will do
everything
in their power
to make you
conform.

It's preposterous.

Don't give in.

Let them suffer.

Let yourself soar.

It's the only way
to live.

Try another way.

I dare you.

You will fail.

Listen to me,
listen clearly,
it's better to be
humiliated,
than it is
to actually
be
one
of these
terrified
addlepates.

Look it up.

Earwig Eggs

It's happening.

Depression crept into
her crib.

Disguised as an earwig,
it crawled into her
brain.

There,
it laid its eggs.

18 years later,
they are now
hatching.

Blossoming madness.

Eating away
her happiness.

I took her
to the hospital
last night.

We laughed
and played around
just like
when I used to
babysit her.

But,
I could
feel
them.

I could actually
see them
behind her eyes.

Feasting.

There's still time
to get them
out.

I have hydrogen peroxide.

I am ready.

I will burn those
fuckers out.

I'd rather see her
go blind,
then see her
go mad.

I'll have to do
it
in her sleep.

But there isn't
much
I can do
now.

Another egg has just
hatched.

Changing Faces

I bet you
she's tired
of the faces.

But
she doesn't
show it.

Everyday
she watches
as the couples
come in.

They're in love,
completely in love,
overwhelmed with its
intoxication.

She imagines them
contorting in
temporary ecstasy
behind thin walls,
behind thinner lies.

The faces change.

Drunk with misery
and jealousy,
eyes glossed over,
slurred remarks
of delusional memories.

The faces turn
their ugliest.

The mask of love
removed.

The couples leave,
sometimes together,
back behind their thin walls,
their thinnest lies.

She closes up,
tired,
only to go back
to her own
misery.

She returns
the next day
to do it over
again.

I bet you
she's tired
of the faces.

But,
she's a pro.

I've never seen her
show it.

The Dying Dream

There's a constant
threat
of murder
in my sleep.

An unknown evil
that lurks
inside me.

It's hands
strangle me
when I dream.

I don't mind.

I'd rather
perish
in my sleep,
fuck
getting sawed in half.

But,
please don't kill me
when I'm dreaming
of work.

I can see my afterlife:
Me
in lingerie,
sticking hypodermic needles
in my veins,
filling them with
scolding hot oil,
feeling it
as it runs
through my body
and come out
of my
cock,
ass, mouth, nose,
and eyes.

Customers yelling at me,
telling me
they want to see
the manager
and tell him how
unsatisfactory
my customer service skills are.

Still I try to help,
but the pain is so
excruciating
I can barely
move,
I just stand there
watching myself
die
this morbid
death.

Then,
the manager finally comes
and tells me
I'm fired.

But I can't leave.

My feet have melted
to the ground
and I begin to
defecate
and urinate
all over myself.

The dream never dies.

Neither do I.

On second thought,
wake me up
and saw me
in half.

The Way

We asked him
to take us
to a nice bar,
one where
there'd be
loose women
and strong drinks.

He knew the perfect place.

He dropped us off
and sped off
with our money
in hand.

We walked in,
the place looked
decent
enough.

There were
women
in there,
it just so happened
they all had
dicks.

We were very
fortunate though,
the drinks were
strong,
so we stayed
and very seldom
used the bathroom.

But we ended up
having a blast
there.

Hell,
I'd live there
and give a few
handjobs,
here and there,
I'd even
dress up
and parade and puke
around the bar.

I guess I'd live
anywhere
there wasn't much
drama
around.

Just me and the boys
drinking,
laughing,
not giving a fuck
about tomorrow
or whether or not
we're catering
to someone else's
expectations.

The way
it should
always
be.

Lost Dreams of Rain

I remember the
north.

The first time.

I remember hearing suicide
rates
and how unbelievably
high
they were.

They still are.

Though,
I had my doubts.

Sunshine wasn't
that
good.

Until,
depression replaced its
rays.

Heavier than oceans.

Upon my precious skull.

The rain
kept it
there
for 90 days
straight.

Fucking 90 fucking days.

I got used to
the darkness.

My heart
held it
close,
stitching it
inside
itself
and feeding it
life.

When the sun
finally
broke through,
I wanted it
covered
and hidden away
from my darkness.

It's rays made me
depressed.

I
no longer
longed
for its comfort.

And now,
I dream of rain
washing my soul,
drowning my
illusions.

And now,
I know
I will never
taste its
purity
again.

The stitches are
sorely
coming
undone.