Music, Sweet Music

There are bruises on my knees and paper confetti caked into my hair.
My wristband, neon green, is still tight on my wrist,
And the sweat.
The sweat is seeping from every fucking pore on my body.
It smells like the zoo. Pits and dreadlocks thrusting themselves in my face so the stenches sear my nostrils.
God, I've never been in an orgy before, but this must be pretty damn close.
I feel like an Ancient Roman yuppie.
I throw myself into the middle of the throng and let myself sway with the human waves to the shore.
The stage.
Slamming fists.
Banging heads.
Stomping feet.
I want to fuck this crowd.
The music.
I pour it over my body like water from a shower head.
This is too good for me, too much for me. But I need more before I collapse to the ground.

I Am A Rare Obscurity

I used to be inspired by Pluto because its planethood was stolen by some dumb scientists who were bored.
I would draw Pluto and his moon, Sharon. With beavers roaming around on its surface. I worte about Pluto and Sharon in poetry.
Now I feel like Pluto.
Stripped away from everything I thought I knew for the mere fact that I'm too small of a rock to be given a chance.

Sabotage

I don't enjoy hating who I am.
But sometimes confidence is
too expensive to buy. Wallow-
ing in the lack of self esteem
becomes easy with a telly, fatty
foods, and a sharpie to draw on
myself during commercials.