Perfection

(By the way, this is slam poetry, so read it as such)

I want this to be a great piece.
You are the bumblebee in my garden. Stinging, but
No. No, I want this to be THE great piece. Once I’m done, I want there to a long silence in awe, then clapping. Not polite clapping. Not mandatory clapping. Clapping in admiration. A standing ovation. A taste of true happiness. Perfect word choice, perfect pace, you’ll say. I want this to be the base of all modern writing.
The bee’s sweet honey cannot compare to your
Let’s be realistic. This isn’t the great piece. I’m not even sure if this is a good piece. I’m never going to make a piece like that. And even if I was, it’s probably going to be in one of those crumpled balls of looseleaf that I so carelessly discard. But maybe it’s better that way. What if I had that moment of pure ecstasy? It would be the climax of my life. Everything after that would be a falling action, just a fraction of what I was. This piece would haunt me and taunt me and laugh in the face of any other writing.

I’ve changed my mind. A perfect piece would be awful. I want this to be the worst piece I’ve ever written.
You are better than the wasp in nearly every way.
A wasp may bite several times, but your teeth can rip through flesh endlessly.
You could and do make your way through old newspaper in double the time of an insect.
Your bright clothing always tells me when you’re near, so as to prepare.
And your friends outnumber the hives of larval defects.
I’d never dare venture your private lair.
I must say that we make quite a pair.

Crack on the Sidewalk

This piece was done without stopping my pencil from moving.

crack on the sidewalk
cannot understand why
don't want my mom's back to break
but that's not the reason
I hate to step on cracks
feel them
put my hand against them
the grainy bulbous sidewalk is intoxicatingly bad
I hate it but without it there is no separation between good and evil
it is completely bad yet I am so drawn to it like I am to a fabric
I cannot stop myself from touching it
I reach out my long arm and my hand feels along the stripe
crinkling my fingers
there's something wrong with me but I don't care
because I feel the sidewalk touching the hot sweat on my body
which I need but also hate
there is nothing that I completely love or hate

I love my parents but I also at the same time hate them
hate them for loving me
hate them for caring
giving a damn
I've secretly wanted them to abandon me
just to see how I would fend for myself in the wild
on the street by myself
touching the horrible cracks on my own with no responsibility
but to live and find food by scraping the roadkill off of the hot pavement
how I would hate the stink and smell
but it would be a challenge
and later I could tell them that I lived on my own
and would lie anyway and say that I was raised by wolves
because nobody could say that I was lying
I would be appreciated even if I had no talent and my writing was crap
and I could go back home to my parents and laugh at them
because abandoning me had only made me stronger
and they would weep and my life would be exactly how I wanted it to be
even if there was nobody to love me
because I had never known love
and the only thing that I had ever learned to love would be that gray sidewalk
which I hated

they are not opposites
I love what I hate because my hate gives love
and my love doesn't make life interesting
and my wolf parents that were never real
would approve and explain to my real parents

Twitter

Oh yeah. I forgot. I have a Twitter now which I update a lot. Check it out at the title link.

Rotisserie

I like my family.
We have a lot of fun together.
But I feel like we know each other too well.
We're like the rotisserie chicken we eat at least once a week.
It's delicious, nutritious, and satisfying.
And yet...I've had it so many times.

Before it even touches my lips, I know exactly what I'm going to taste.
The flavorful skin and molten brussel sprouts are no surprise.
I realize before it touches my plate that I will have to work around pieces of fat and thin bones.
I have momentary enjoyment and yet...I don't grow as a person.

The experience has become superficial and empty.
As much as I love them, my family has lost its flavor.

Restart?

Out of boredom, I'm slowly but surely starting up the blog again. You can linger and bookmark the page, but don't count on consistent updates.