I wish I didn’t have to live like this Defined by money I have to work to have worth I’m not saying I wish work was abolished I’m just saying I wish it wasn’t a fight for first I wish we weren’t told who was further in life By how many zeroes were in their bank balance If that is the case I am in dead last This is a triathlon And I am currently unable to swim I am gulpgulping in bodies of water My lungs are full While your wallet is full I know you think communism is stupid I understand why I wish we understood together And how we could be together No longer separated by social class This is no longer a pyramid This is a rectangular prism The measurements are 4 by 4 by 12 There are 192 square dollars to be distributed To every person I am begging my saviors Karl Marx and Jesus Christ To steal from the rich and give to the poor I will rename my saviors Robin Christ and Karl Hood Please do not force me to call me to call myself a name I am not defined by that I just believe in equality I hope these lines equal some snaps I am in need of your validation Please snap for me Please just snap until I think of my next line I hope there is no next line I hope the line for food banks stops here I wish Communism hadn’t gone so wrong How can I convince people I have good intentions? Your defense consists of “Look at every country that tried to implement it” That is not what I like I think you know what I like I like equal opportunities Please join me up here It is your opportunity to speak It is yours as well Please Speak your mind I will listen I hope you are listening now Have my wishes put you to sleep? I sure hope not I am expected to sleep On social issues, I am passionate about So therefore, I am no longer well rested My eyes are bloodshot They are flaming red I have become teary eyed Oh, please Bono Please find a platform for me And you too Let’s hold a communist manifest A manifestation of good intentions I hope good intentions come from this I have no good intentions This poem makes me sound hateful towards the rich I am See this is not fair I am a slave to capitalism But I will continue to work Three hundred and fifty-six dollars and 48 cents That is my current worth I wish it was nothing And now I am all

i feel like i've become so desensitized lately like im more concerned with trump's next move than what's happening in my own country i feel like these things wont even surprise me anymore i feel like ive fely everything im ever going to feel like i'll never be as happy as i was when we saw star wars and ate burritos and i'll never be as sad as i was on my last birthday but that's how everyone feels at 17 and there are some days like today completely in the middle after im done reading this to you ill sit in my chair and fiddle or maybe i'll check tinder that's where my mind is at right now im itching to reach into my pocket to see if ive matched with anyone im dying to not feel alone for once in a while like these girls even give a shit about me like anything i say has any feelings my words are decomposting log in the woods damp with dew and crawling with ants i feel like i wouldnt feel those ants either like theyd crawl on me but id be so unaware im watching cnn the first 100 days and these ants are crawling inside me i cant stop swiping right and reading bios and looking at pictures of random people but these ants are already inside me i think i can feel them now thats a start wait no that was just twitter some random person just liked my tweet does that mean im famous its an inanimate sensation finally something to feel in hindsight it might be worse than nothing im still watching trump paul ryan is explaining everything hes saying thats normal right? im too desensitized to notice that its not im too desensitized to notice that my mother just called him a retard thats normal in his house i feel the word linger in the air its floating to the ceiling there it sits with all the other insults that feel empty but carry so much my house has become the log it is filled now the ants are still crawling though i just cant feel them now

Walking contradictions who never stop We personify the intangible The neglected The clouted We, the generation who never fails to contradict The contraceptives that never fail We, who never fail to contradict We, who state serious matters only to follow with a simple “jk” to avoid confrontation We, who never fail to point out that we should never judge, yet rule the verdict before the jury decides We, who passionately try to abolish the idea of time but still revolve around the same 1440 combination of numbers every day We, who glorify self-love like a trophy, but only a plastic one for participation that our parents demanded before we knew the idea of losing We, who fill books with hedonist prose but never fill ourselves with our own talents We, who revolt against the idea of conformity but never take it upon ourselves to shift the paradigm We, who hate the idea of being bourgeois but never try to lead a life not created before us We, who write poetry about our problems but never address the problem head on, instead cowering behind couches in our moms living room worth more than all of my belongings combined We, who always try but never hard enough, somehow only failing ourselves We, who try new things like wiser figures suggest, only to face ridicule from god at the gates We, who reject western religions but put ourselves on pedestals above god's reach, only then finding our true place We, who prosper in arts, but only deem our own worth to be lower than the platforms we were given We, who write until we bleed, only to give payments in the form of apple pay instead of our own original thoughts We, who browse twitter and shamelessly steal ideas to put on our own profile, only to remember that none of us are original We, who always forget our self-worth before selling out, where my only demand is “show me the money” We, who transfigure cash incentive for one-minute experiences soon to be forgotten We, who glorify the now, but only if the moment can live on my snapchat story a little longer than the 24 hour expiration date the internet gave it But on the internet, everything lasts forever In this generation, we will never die Carbon footprints taking mile long strides from ever western coast we were never the best coast I can only prove my existence through mainstream and underground media standards and followers The subliminal “@me next time” spoken in a room where only physical and verbal vibrations exist Where the twitterverse blends in the universe like a too-faced palette Being a gemini was never more ironic The stars are only translated on tweets and I always read your horoscope as well I never realized how similar we could be when we fulfill our own prophesies I guess that’s what happens when we replace god I am becoming god We are becoming god Only to be faced with the contradictions of another 2000 years

Once, but maybe a few times more We wrote in stanzas But only metaphorical ones We destroyed the idea of form We formed in new legions of wonder Weighed the pros and cons of writing in Shakespeare prose And only made vague attempts at balancing the shift of Pangea We tried, but only hardly, to write unwritten poetry Following Ginsberg, Bukowski, and Rimbaud Rambling rewritten phrases because the first thought never seemed like the best thought I only gave my poems little thought But its an idea that I never got or gave We are only as original as the books we write in Moleskine jounals bought at cole’s for far more than they were worth We searched for pennies for our thoughts fulfilling the starving artist archetype The only type of arch I achieved was only momentary The moments felt terrible while we were in them Writing and writing and writing until it became habit and we did it in slo-mo Habitual line after line only feeling the need to repeat the process to impress The impression I received was more post-modern than it was van gogh I signed all my poems “r mutt” and tried to ask tired questions like “whats the point” I sound like myself mixed with all the other nihilist I wrote my future in secondary journals and only used it as a backup when I felt lost I just used it to rip up preconceived notions I gave birth to in earlier months When love was an option instead of unrequited love I took the easier path because I knew I could only rely on not having to reciprocate It’s the same way with poetry I knew it never had to like me back The depth of my words never had to be more the a kiddie pool Ive always related more to a puddle that only existed after an extreme morning dew I want my ink to come off under water so I shower with my book I want my words to never be read and wash myself dirty with them I want to stain my skin with my own bad ideas I wish I could tattoo my own self-righteous words on my forehead but I could never commit to one favourite line one long enough All the poems I write are to stream of consciousness to last forever I feel like im just finding these in the river of my thoughts That runs shallow too I fish but only using a magnetic rod The hook-line-and-sinker of sinking opportunities If I fish up something good i'll just throw it back I could never keep an idea for myself It always needs to be shared My ideas have grown an ego too Mass-egotism spreading into all my works maliciously The ego never ends The poems never end But maybe one day They will But before then I promised myself It would run a marathon

We do the same things on an everyday basis but it never feels monotonous We live in nostalgia of times we never experienced We experience time like its real but we reminisce in times before we even invented clocks We remind ourselves that self-love is the pinnacle of living so we always climb the mountain until we get to tired to continue Find an already dug cave and rest for the rest of our lives We are always searching for our true selves but I lost myself on the trip there I was so burdened by mainstream and underground media that I convinced myself that I found myself Somewhere between an introvert and an extremist Im going back to try to find the root of it but the only numbers that come up are uneven Im reliving old relationships through new ones Im going back to my old ways Im writing 3 pages but with no point The proof shows in my little black book And explaining all my ideas through loose rhyme and metaphor These ideas feel like my dads jeans Too big but maybe with enough comfort and beer i'll fill into them Im always talking about living in the now but my projection screams im a futurist Im conflicted on where I want to be Im not sure where I might end up Im still not sure this makes any sense Im writing in the present tense I feel tense at the present moment We’re pitching tents in the forests to get closer to nature But only to blog text tweet repost and glorify about how we “love nature” But only through smartphone lenses The closest I felt to nature is when I joined it in a joint I hope that my pale complexion wont be ruined by the sun I fell closest to Im trying to fix myself like the axis every time I make a trip around the sun My dad says “im proud of you son” but im not sure he knows why hes proud I told him “dad pride is going to get you killed“ so he felt proud that I knew what he taught me what the original son of god taught him We feel pride but only in major accomplishments Like a c major scale We only site it as major because we felt happiness in them I felt pride when I came to terms with feelings Even in sadness and shame and guilt I felt pride because I reached my pinnacle And I never felt like I settled half way up But maybe I did And at the pinnacle Ill find my true self And hope that all my selfish versions are there Reading what they wrote But reaping what each other sowed

I was at work earlier this week And my ego refused to listen to my boss She said to me “listen to me! You are a being who is being INSUBORDINATE!” and I said “insubordination isn’t real” So I got fired But I realized while understanding the falsity of power and insubordination That maybe none of this is real And everything is a figment of my imagination Meaning that supervisors are not real Work is not real Money is not real Government is not real Technology is not real Law is not real Deforestation is not real War is not real Death is not real She, he, them are not real Poverty is not real His mystical visions and cosmic vibrations are not real Capitalism isn't real Ronald raegan isn't real The war on drugs isn't real But it also means Donald glover isn't real Allen Ginsberg isn't real My friends aren't real Shopenhauer isn't real My 3 grams aren’t real My mom dad brothers niece are not real Milo is not real Frank ocean is not real Communism and karl marx are not real Music isn't real But I would choose to believe in solipsism I would forsake all these things If it were not for you To think that you would not be real would be the worst part I would not be able to dream you up in cerebral thought For not even god, should he exist, could create you And to think that you could not be real Only a thing I thought up My brain in a glass jar Projecting visions of true, unfiltered perfectness onto you A super 8 reel of all our memories playing on the blank wall of the 5th dimension of my brain Where only my most profound thoughts live Knowing that only you or I know the intricate details of the nights The half-asleep hallucinations Mesmerizing me like only your thoughts could Knowing that you An individual Are real And is just as real as the love we share and hold between us Pressed between moleskine pages and thrifted clothes And knowing that it would be and impossible thought to think That you might not be real

I hate writing poetry But im not a poet I love writing poetry But im not a fucking poet no one’s a poet poetry is so contrived and we cant write a new word I hate being constricted to a form To being held to a label Words are so minute I wish I could communicate through your mind Through my mind Arriving at the back of your skull And reverberate through the cosmos of your mind I wanna write lines I like so you can snap so I can feel good about myself so i can touch myself and say “you earned this” So I can feel like language games are worth my while And feel like shopenhauer pays off And so I feel like less of a waste Im sick of translating my thoughts to words and trying to impress you with my phrasing The words don’t matter but I hate writing like I talk And im still not a poet Im just talking Maybe the conversation will take place post-listening, post-reading, post mortem I hope we can talk after death A little bit of coffin talk before we sleep like after we fuck till we die And maybe in the midst of all this I can figure out who I am Who you are Who we are Who they are Who where is And what this all once was Before we polluted it with post-industrial ideas and factories And may we once return to dust And forget our thoughts and dreams of lust And greed and envy Before god and satan knew us best Only of which the latter instills any feeling in us I want my feelings to mean something And meanings to make feelings real I want to grow and expand and protrude upon new ideas in the realm of false imaginations I want to die in the name of something great I want to die in the name of me But I could never feel that self-righteous I want to die in the name of language I want to die in the name of poetry I want to die as a poet