to color inside the lines
i've lost it. any talent that i might have had.
is gone.
~
channel it
this melancholic indigo
lack of inspiration
and patriotic indig(nation)
these rosehip blues
and too-late cues
forcing to you choose between
a life less lovely and tragic
death on the news,
glamorized in burnt-out hues,
a yellow less bright than
the white walls enclosing your
corpse in a prison of deprivation,
emaciation, and anti-liberation
self-righteous racists and
fascists fighting the good fight
the light never hurt their eyes
so badly, the lies and
mind-disease rolling from their
lips and their rhythm dying
at their hips because Jesus knows
only music can save them.
infusing their existences with
petty nuances and Bette Davis
breasts, lest movie stars and
expensive cars fade from the
limelight, we’ll be okay
another day of runaways
and track marks on the arm,
pity for self-harm dissipating
into apathy and fake tears at sappy
movies and straight faces to funeral
cases and caskets and whatever you
want to call them to make your
life a little more happy
well, baby girl, your string
is unfurling and you curls are
uncurling and your life is
simply falling apart
it’ll all be made into art someday,
so don’t you worry, put on some
blush and start your morning
with coffee and rush out the door
to floor number 52 so you
can sit in a cubicle
and be blissfully anonymous
you can never hope to be
an anomaly,
ordinary girl
is gone.
~
channel it
this melancholic indigo
lack of inspiration
and patriotic indig(nation)
these rosehip blues
and too-late cues
forcing to you choose between
a life less lovely and tragic
death on the news,
glamorized in burnt-out hues,
a yellow less bright than
the white walls enclosing your
corpse in a prison of deprivation,
emaciation, and anti-liberation
self-righteous racists and
fascists fighting the good fight
the light never hurt their eyes
so badly, the lies and
mind-disease rolling from their
lips and their rhythm dying
at their hips because Jesus knows
only music can save them.
infusing their existences with
petty nuances and Bette Davis
breasts, lest movie stars and
expensive cars fade from the
limelight, we’ll be okay
another day of runaways
and track marks on the arm,
pity for self-harm dissipating
into apathy and fake tears at sappy
movies and straight faces to funeral
cases and caskets and whatever you
want to call them to make your
life a little more happy
well, baby girl, your string
is unfurling and you curls are
uncurling and your life is
simply falling apart
it’ll all be made into art someday,
so don’t you worry, put on some
blush and start your morning
with coffee and rush out the door
to floor number 52 so you
can sit in a cubicle
and be blissfully anonymous
you can never hope to be
an anomaly,
ordinary girl