Driven Mad

Driving me mad

These words I’m given

The heartbeats I fathom

The depths I’ve written

Death comes to me on swift wings

On the sweats of nightmares

And between the lips of my beloved

Fantasy she is, reality we may be

A million dreams till we see that day

All sorts of emotions wrung from the daylight

Anger at the mass media circus

Repulsion at those who follow them

Sadness at being autistic and helpless

To ever discovering how the world sees me

I’m always thinking, and then overthinking

Wondering how to solve these problems

The answer is there, if only we looked

Sometimes I can find them

Other times I can’t

But every time I write it

These words give weight to my breath

Color to my blood

And wings to my wishes


What Does It Mean

I want to be friends

But I’m a terrible friend

I reply

But what does it mean to reply?

Is it simply agreeing

Or following the hints at a greater point?

I don’t know

I want to be loved

But I’m a terrible lover

I love

But I honestly can’t explain the feeling

And I dunno if anyone’s ever loved me back

Is it actions? Is it words? Both? None?

I don’t know

Feeling Human Again

Police lights flash in my windows
Rain bears down on freshly cut grass
Paved streets glisten on this Sunday night
Sunday night
Where I play air soft for for hours with friends
Getting shot for fun is fun
Only it’s hella serious
And once you enter you can’t leave
At least that’s how I approach it
Caution mixed with reckless abandon
I’m the man of the arena, and I light it up
(Okay. I don’t. I get shot. A lot)
But quickening reflexes and endurance
Sweat stirs the insides of men
And I embrace the passion and persistence
It gets my mind off my failures for a little
Being too this, too shy to make true friends
Too introverted to become memorable
Too autistic to know if people really care
I can’t read anyone anywhere
But every pull of the trigger, I make it feel pain
The pain it brings me
And I let it loose
Even for a few hours
I feel like I’m human again

Back To The Drawing Board

Back to the drawing board

‘Ol drawing board

Where I pour out all my issues and emotions

One of the few things to which I show devotion

One line, two lines, ten lines, it’s quite a potion

Next moment I’ve lost track of three hours

They’re screaming at me three times louder

I can hear them from the basement shower

And echo from the hilltop tower

I can hear the raining in my head, and my eyes

Are like windows left open in the summer

The tears pour from the inside, paper not dry

Every single drop is a little wish of goodbye

Every single ruined page is another lie

That you discover

I’m not unlike any other


It hurts, the cyclones, hurricanes in my head

Beating the inside till I’m speechless and numb

But the fatal flaws are hardly awake but livid

And they seek out my innocence, want it dead

These words are a plea for help from it all

I can’t catch myself, so I just might fall

Suicide Missions

I travel through the darkness
To find the orphan child
The ones who don’t know they’re alive
Zombies they might be, but I know
What they can be
I used to be dead, just doing enough to get by
Just doing whatever they told me
I wanted to get it done, so I rushed through it
I dreamt of a perfect imperfection
Imperfect practice molded perfect pretending
Until I decided I wasn’t going to ride the wave
But be the catalyst
Now I don’t write but am written
No longer just reading but being read
Not a lover but being loved
There is a solemn liberation in silence
You have to be okay with being secluded
But once you let the whispers guide you
And the night terrors heighten your tolerance
You can see everything you need to know
Now the shouting doesn’t scare me
And I can run into the burning buildings
Save the ones I was meant to support
I’m coming for you
And then
I’m coming home

Scars From History We Don’t Teach

Razors are annoying
Cutting too much
Too little
Scarring the face, lost in the race
To achieve something
Four ugly scars on one side
Two on the other
It’s quite shameful
What could they say? Nothing?
Or everything?
The in between is the disaster
Politics are annoying
Cutting out too much of the poor
Cutting in too many rich
Scarring the face of the nation
Lost in the race for supremacy
We’ve become supremely decadent
Scars for the aborted, scars for the forgotten
Scars from the history we don’t teach

Song of the Year

The song of the year

Would be tears

Would be what could’ve been

And wasn’t done

The record of the year

Was that we care

Was that we’re equal

Even though some want walls

The artist of the year

Was everyone

Played for fools

Paying premium prices

For what the previous seller sold at half price

You know who I mean

He inspired many

A people

Now that’s gone

And the season of senseless silencing of black lives

Rolls on

Neither Writing Nor Rioting

I’m talking to you
Yes, the one who hasn’t said a word
Who hasn’t raised his hand
Hardly given the teacher a glance
No, he’s not here. Not ever.
He’s writing to a girl he hopes to meet
From Ohio. Wisconsin. Or Massachusetts.
Dreaming of a wonderful life together.
Frolicking in the snow, and the passion
Between keeps them warm
He’s rioting on the steps of City Hall
Tears in his eyes he asks for justice
True justice, a calling not for more action
But in silence
Hear the angels in still whispers
And in heaven’s lights take back the night
He wants to see his people free
He’s neither writing nor rioting
Sitting nor standing
Just being himself
Just being
A little loud at times
Too shy for others
But the goal is real
And the passion unlike another

Good Job, Humanity

Who thought cranes were a good idea?
I mean, seriously
Putting one guy
On the top of a thin tower of metal
Taller than some buildings often times
To battle storms
Wind or rain
This isn’t progress, it’s lunacy
But hey, what about highways?
Oh yeah, it’s so cool that so many
Go over large bodies of water
And they’re made out of concrete
Suspended by ropes or wires
Yes, ropes or wires
I’m laughing so hard my stomach muscles
Just announced retirement
Speaking of that, how about football players
Since when did humans have thick skulls
To protect our brains from vicious collisions
Like rhinos or species of dinosaur
CTE just might rhyme with money
But increases in retirees does not

I Don’t Like Listening

I don’t like listening
At least not to you
The same ‘ok news, the same ‘ol
Breaking, boring news
It’s excruciating to bear
Pretending I care about celebrities
I couldn’t care less, whether they gained
Or lost
But their lives are pushed on me as real
Images barraged upon souls as if they were gods
They are mortals, no greater or less than I
So why aren’t people mimicking my wardrobe
Or getting tattoos of my name?
I haven’t sold out yet? No mixtape?
No record breaking single about gold chains?
No leaked sex tapes? No album cover
Adorned with spread legs and whiskey bottles?
I don’t have a crew of white fuckboys
Posting daily cringe videos on YouTube
There’s a lot of things I’m not
And a conformist is one of them
Standing on the outside of your inside
Is a life goal of mine
And might be the only thing I’ve ever done
That I was proud of