Below is a number of poems I've written over the years (most of which I'm still proud of). Some are humorous, some are depressing, and some are just weird, but I hope you enjoy!
Who the hell am I?
Sitting in an enigma of fog and confusion,
my life is a series of masks
perhaps, or is it the truth, pure and simple?
I sit in an enigma of fog and confusion.
Am I a studious genius or a lazy idiot?
Or are they both the truth, pure and simple?
That doesn't make much sense, but neither do I?
Am I a studious genius or a lazy idiot?
I think they might both be true, like Schrodinger's cat.
That doesn't make much sense, but neither do I.
If that's true, the identity is determined by the observer.
I think these might both be true, like Schrodinger's cat:
I'm a model student and a societal outcast.
Which means, the identity is chosen by the observer.
But then, without an observer, what am I?
I'm a model student and a societal outcast.
I put on masks to satisfy others.
But then, without the others, what am I?
Remove the mask, and what lies beneath?
I put on masks to satisfy others.
My life is simply a series of masks.
Remove the mask, and who is underneath?
Who the hell am I?
I tread over brimstone sand and into a blazing blue tent.
The well-fitting swim shirt remains baggy to my heart,
and my leg hair stabs gruesomely, mercilessly.
It's flashing through my mind: the fantasy of tearing
through vocal cords.
A dying name is called, and blood sprays from
veins; whether mine or theirs, I can't tell.
My eyes have been scorched by the sun to
avoid the bikini-clad women. Their curves
and edges were things my hulking mass
couldn't grasp.
Just another pair of guys:
the straight couple of my future boyfriend and me.
The fan-service-filled beach episode corrupted
into a boy's club of testosterone tear gas.
It's flooding my lungs, and I'm gagging
on smoking rage at my own putrid corpse.
"It will only be two hours,"
but with the melting minute hand,
each seconds takes forever.
The fiery sand is scorching
as my body grinds against my brain:
two incongruous gears forced
to work together.
The pyre burns below, and my mind runs.
It's a world where an ice skater of estrogen ambrosia
is flowing through me. I'm sitting next to Reiner.
I'm opening presents of dolls, not trains. I'm wearing
flashy dresses to middle-school prom.
I'm happily playing on the beach.
In the Sixth Grade, two eyes met.
Boy and girl, in the hallway.
Then, a push and pull, the crowd moved them.
But, as if in a spell, their eyes didn't stray.
In the Eight grade, Valentine's Day:
The boy, his face as read as a heart,
gave her a letter and some chocolate.
She smiled, and responded with a homemade tart.
In the Ninth grade, a package arrived.
The boy's Mom looked at him.
"And what might this be?"
"A gift for my girlfriend, a skirt with a long trim."
In her house, the girl had a birthday party.
The boy nervously gave her a a gift.
The girl tore it open, her face a grin. Inside was a brand new book, "Adventures at the Cliff."
In the Tenth grade, the girl camped out
at the boy's house, on his birthday.
Then, a girl she didn't know left the house.
The girl followed the stranger.
In the Twelfth grade, the boy came to school.
His face blushing fiercely, he looked at the girl.
The girl smiled mischievously, and motioned for him to spin.
The boy, wearing a skirt, makeup, and a wig did a twirl.
In college, two girls walked hand in hand.
Grinning ear to ear, they looked so deeply
into each other's eyes that it seemed almost murderous,
but intertwined hands told the story plainly.
In a church, two brides approached each other.
Lifting their veils, a kiss to seal a contract.
Looking into their eyes, each said
the whispered opinion, "I love you," now a fact.
You're sitting there, blue screen of death.
Using win10 is like joining Geth.
So right now I will advise you:
why don't you just install Gentoo?
Drivers failing, connection's weak.
I thought you got off your drinking streak?
You just need an OS that strikes true?
Why don't you just install Gentoo?
You hate yourself? You want to die?
Well instead of shriveling up to cry,
you could just find something useful to do:
why don't you just install Gentoo?
Your spouse has left, you're done with life,
you're bankrupt, all you've got: a knife.
The tip pointed at your chest, aimed true.
Why don't you just install Gentoo?
Decent? Virtuous?
Not just now,
putting my aptitude to the test.
So self-absorbed as to be negligent:
the devil.
"To think you'd even play a natural born killer."
We belonged to completely different worlds.
I'd lost count of how many times I'd asked the question.
"What do you want?"