We are moon-beasts.
It's really fucking cool, actually-
That we can be so connected to nature-
Whether we fucking want to be or not.
It's splendid-
A symbiotic relationship.
My life is full of symbiotic relationships.
But I don't think that's a bad thing-
Not in the least.
I dig it, really I do.
Especially this.
I come from a long line of all this-
Look at the moon-
Look at the moon-
Look at the moon-
I still have her voice inside me.
The swearing and all that jazz-
See what I mean?
But I am embracing what I feel in a way more outward approach.
I wear flowers now.
My body is a canvas, as it should be.
But I feel the need to go further, though dumb it may be.
I downed a 36 ounce cup of acid, talk about dumb-
Well, not acid, but it may as well be.
This is another slew of nothingness.
Content should be content, not just metaphysical yearnings-
But the latter is my comfort zone, who am I to argue with my muse.
I've determined she's a girl.
That's kinda the point, isn't it.
But I suppose I have a fuck-ton of lesbian crushes, so that's simply inevitable.
I see girls as mates and guys as distraction.
Girls are muses and goddesses and such.
And guys are misogynistic slime.
Not all, of course.
The guys I love, I adore all too much, and I think that must be part of my problem.
I pine for my guy friends when I go even a week or two far from them.
One in particular right now.
Basil, the scarecrow.
He's a sweetheart.
He's my Armand, and he's content with that fate.
No others would be, mind you.
God it's past midnight, and I have a class tomorrow.
Why do I do this to myself.
I have that acid burning in my belly.
I know I cannot sleep now.
Not until I go a little crazy, here.
That's the situation I've lived a vast many times before.
That's why I have so many invitations to institutes pinned up on my purple walls.
I made that last bit up, but that really shouldn't matter.
It seems to be the direction I've chosen for myself.
Carry on and make shit up.
Oh, but think of the possibilities-
Think of the little truths I can slip in.
Think of Armand, speak of that little devil.
Though the voices are concerned, I feel sturdy in the road I walk.
My feet may fumble, like the dirty little beasts I write about, but I must keep walking-
Regardless of how many circles I travel.
And all the mystery places I'll surely pass.
I think I might be in love with her.
For real, though.
I don't want it, since it'd scare her off.
I know I have it in me to scare people off-
Do you wanna cry? I can make you cry-
I've had nightmares of scaring people off-
All those I write about in code names, since I fear if they knew how much I love them-
They'd turn and walk out of my wide, ripped-open heart.
"No, but I love you!"
I would scream.
"Yes, and that's the problem!"
They would cry.
Basil/Armand/Scarecrow is a good example, yet he didn't recoil in fear.
I'm very glad of that fact.
And my brother, when I bitched out his ex-girlfriend, proclaiming him as an angel, simply said,
"Wow, I'm glad you think so much of me!"
"Anytime, dear-"
I think in my overly-affectionate mind-voice.
I read old notes of mine.
They say, "I don't need anyone."
That couldn't be further from the truth.
I get my motivation from my beloveds.
I have so many beloveds, and I need them all.
I want to tear open my stiff ribs and scream,
"Here, take a bit of my innards- my heart preferably. You own it anyways."
I think if I ever had some fatal disease I might carry that out in a literal sense-
But that'd surely scare them.
Still it'd be pretty and gruesome and artistic.
I think I've gotten out my daily dose of crazy.
The acid has flown into my glazed-over eyes.
They water with anticipation for tomorrow.
Which I must be ready for.
So preparation is now.
Excuse me, love.
No comments:
Post a Comment