You're sad and you don't even know it.
You're an illiterate typist, a blind glassblower.
You're the spoke that catches the hamster.
You're a metaphor constantly using wheels.

I have to write words like this
in order to feel like someone else.
It used to be that I'd just change
my hair or my clothes and that would be all.

I'm too old for that bullshit now.
I'm too old to not recognize how awful I am.

I judge people. I'm not that funny.
People think I treat women terribly.
I finally made all of those enemies I earned
because I opened my fucking mouth too much.

It's too fucking early sonnet

I've been in love three times already
Each time felt like dancing in a fire
with the girl holding a bucket of water
over her head, and laughing, and doing nothing.

Two of them got married.
One two months after I graduated high school.
The other one is having a baby with her husband.

I'm twenty-one years old.
I shouldn't have to deal with shit like that yet.
And my family is starting to fall apart too.

The third one won't return my calls.
She hates me, all of me, through and through.
I think I'm still in love with her.
Now, I'm with someone else. It's alright.

Bigmouth

Today I think my brain is in my back,
nestled in muscle, cradled by the bone,
sending messages from my blind-side:
be more flexible, worry less, do more
push-ups, just don't think, don't.

I cleaned my bathroom to clear my head
and I sprayed cleaning product in my eyes
on accident. It burned like things
I've never felt, because I avoid burning.

There are dreams I have sometimes
Where I'm yelling at some guy,
trying to pick a fight, and he's bigger than me.

And I don't talk my way out of this one,
and I wake up, scared, before the first punch.