By:  The Vampire Sweets


Incapacitated little imp 

with a big fat dictionary in her lap 

full of words 

what to say 

what to say 

what to draw up next 

in her feeble little existential mind 

full of warped delusions 

and wet dreams about intelligence 

raining over her someday 

pleading to the gods 

for the words to come 

crashing into her cranium 

with all of the strength 

and flavor of good coffee 

but the best she can do 

is mud, mixed with sand 

mixed with pedantic rantings 

and misused clinical diagnosis 

of sicker people long since dead 

people with the diseases that cloud 

and boggle her own inert, 

isolated membranes 

with wild, meandering anger 

and supposed inventiveness. 

and they say the world has gone mad.... 

thirsty for the real world 

and all of it's tragic hardships 

but all she has is her own 

little alter 

of mutant hardship 

and never ending 

self-inflicted agony 

infected with artificial pains 

oh what does the quest for a true identity 

produce for you my young 


just the illusion that you can 

outweigh the true weight of oppression and sorrow... 

you are no classic darkness 

as dramatic and beautiful as you may think you are... 

you are just an imitation of the torture, and the damage that the world's most 

dangerous difficulties inflict. 

stay off to side 

and watch while the big people 

play the game. 

Sour sickness walks the earth in the form of those who are healthy and want 

to be sick. 

oh woe...the self made victims crashing down their own houses! 

who ever thought that malice was home grown 

and so it is 

that the ones who try the hardest to be caught in the drenching spotlight 

always wind up at the bottom. 

squeeze it hard, and still 

it slips away. 

It's a raggedy shame 

compulsive little aliens hang 

around not knowing when they have 

been forgotten... 

not knowing when they have lost... 

but for all the show 

there is only one... 

the loser... 

the pseudo-intellectual with the heart of a savage...peel away the mask 

be what you are... 

there is nothing there is there? 

well that explains every 

twerpy, vindictive little needle you have tried to shove in my eye.... 

I can still see you jumping 

and you can't reach me 

you can't touch me 

and yet in a way you have... 

pity the lonely little student 

with her own little agenda 

and no direction... 

let me tell you a privy 

misery isn't all it's cracked up to be... 

but you do it poorly to begin with... 

you have made a disgrace of the already pathetic career. 

you will never cross the finish line 

and never make a true point. 

cast it off 

save nothing for there is so little left 

just let it all ride on the wind like a bad-smelling draft.... 

it's going to come back around 

someday and blow your skirt up 

to show what a mess you have made 

of yourself beneath all of the 

competitive tough-girl fizzle.