I don’t know if I make any sense
but I like digging in my couch to collect a few cents
to buy some booze
a black and mild or two
maybe a tiny bit a shrooms
and eighth of an eighth
Gobble them up
upchuck my thoughts
wake up in a puddle of my past
My third eye’s mascara is running
let me go to the little boy’s room to powder my nose
reapply my psychological make up
I need to find a pretty girl to love
and break up
I need a punctilious princess
to pick up my pieces
and forge a kintsugi mind
to stare at
and be proud of
and show off to her friends
and add to the crystalized museum in her head
Maybe I don’t make any sense right now
but my sixth sense is high off an eighth
Smoke and music floats above me
as I make ash angels on the floor of my garage
Maybe this doesn’t make sense
Maybe I’m rambling.
Maybe I’m in shambles
Maybe I need a revolver and a bullet
to make a gamble
Middle finger on the hammer….pull it
Blow my brains onto an empty canvas.
Does it really matter?
How my loved ones feel?
once I’m gone
I’ll leave a pretty note
written in music notes
A sad song singing how I don’t feel like I belong
How I long for acceptance
but hate the person people see me as
I hate my past
I hate my wrath
I hate that the only thing that’s definite is math
Why do I feel this way?
Why do I feel like a stray?
The runt of a mutt stuck in a muddy rut
What am I?
Who am I?
Where am I?
Does any of it matter?
Am I just a random collection of matter?
I’m rambling again.
Take your pills, B.
Go to sleep, B.
Don’t worry, B.
Tomorrow will B the same.