To My Late Night Studiers

Mounds of rotting flesh pile in my hands
Seeping through my fingertips like the finest sand
A Far cry at who we used to be
We used to be late night talkers
Poets
Philosophers
We used to be barefoot field romers
Picnic goers
Flower pickers
We were opinion voicers
Singers
Tellers
We used to be toe tappers
Rhythm catchers
Listeners
enthusiasts
We were writers
Paint hands
Canvas fillers
Stanza builders
Pen holders
Journal barriers

But as the heart of weres and used tos shrivel and decay
Who are we?

Clothes worriers
Mascara eyes
Late night studiers
Opinionless


Drones.


So we hold onto the sliver of who we were
Who we used to be
With white knuckles
And pray we make it
One more day.

Dernier Appel Vers Nulle Part

I see everything in gray?

I'm sick of seeing everything in the same awful shade of gray

that mass murderer had parents and grandparents and a childhood and a favorite trinket or toy

that bestselling author who wrote the novel of the century had that kid they bullied in high school and that time they screamed at the person they loved

and it makes it really hard to know what to do and what's right and what's not

I have the power to do anything and nothing

why not do nothing and die on the streets?

we all go the same place in the end

Dead Life

Give me a pill that will remedy the anxiety
From the pill that remedies the depression
From the pill that remedies the dreams
From the pill that makes me okay
A cocktail of prescription pills is what is takes to make me seem alright
Isn't it satiric the highest abused drug in teens is pills
and if we aren't popping them to soar higher than the watered down reality we've been limited to we're chugging bottle after bottle to numb what doesn't feel alright
Hey don't worry, I hear there is a pill for that

Don’t ask me if I fancy the color of the sky
My world is monochromatic-monotone-dead-dead-dead
my mind's a hurricane and I can’t see past the walls
I boarded around myself
I'm a therapist's worst nightmare

Her  ink cartridge
that her fingers wrap around
it’s made up of one part tears
and one part false sympathy
ask another question
scribble another note
all these kids sitting on these chairs are becoming victims of stories no one ever thinks enough of to tell
their life's summarized between the lines of her clipboard
I’m a vital stepping stool in another hurricane heart’s dream
but I can’t seem to find my own
I'd rather be a footnote in someone's story
than focus on my own
because the future is terrifying
if i don't wind up hanging from a pilar like a cheap piece of art
i'll paint my walls half assed with blood
but let's be honeset
I won't do a damn thing

The therapist nods
and writes with her hand swift
Wash down another pill and take another step closer to the cliff
your life was a dead end to begin with.

Kiss a punk, save a life,

Dust Rat

The Importance of Being Unimportant

          I have never experienced something so comforting or destroying than the knowledge that I am unimportant to the world in the big picture. There is an estimated seven billion people in this world. Which means me, an average teen, is unimportant. I hold no significance to this world. I am a run of the mill child, nothing rich, famous, or ingenious about me. This is both comforting and disheartening at the same time. To know that most likely when I die I will be unknown makes me feel inevitably inadequate, but to know that no matter what kind of shit storm I have caused here, I can go away and no one will know me is a good feeling. Another nameless face in the crowd. A new city, country, state. No one knows me. I could start over, reinvent myself completely. This is somehow enlightening. I can mess up, and everything that is happening to me is minuscule in measurement to this big, big, world.










Good Vibes,
Dust Rat.