Imp
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
impaler?
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.