Prodigal, Prodigal

I'm uniquely self-obsessed,
because the idea of being maybe
a little crazy
pleases me,
the same way dreaming about
angels wearing cutoffs
pleases me.

I give these dreams
twenty-five points,
'cos I can dance to 'em,

I'm not a poet, I'm just
another fucked up kid with a
keyboard, too much time
to sit and think. Bastard offspring
of so many parents,
whelped by an ugly beast
in heat with ideas staining
its loins.
I raised myself in front of a
piece of paper, sucking
the life out of pens,
bullshit ideas.
My guardians were pop-
culture icons,
who wanted to borrow
five dollars
watch me get high,
handlers who never
fed me.

There ain't much food in the world
when they kick you outta highschool.
Ain't many jobs when you drop
outta college.
There's love in the world, though
Truth and beauty.
Personal responsibility.

You can't eat shit like that.
They do make it easier not to feel
such a waste of po-fucking-tential.

I was tossed out on my ass
for not believing they were right.
Thinking I was better than
busywork
and bell curves,
punching that jock in the balls
when he called me a faggot
because of long hair
because of clothes.
I probably should've stopped after
a couple minutes.
I couldn't.

If you don't leave with skin under
your fingernails
blood on your hands
they don't remember you.

Shit like that isn't pretty,
it doesn't dance -
things like that can
only cavort,
little demon memories
that never get behind you.
Little demon memories
that caper in front of your face
forever, spraypainting and spitting
on every lovely thing you
step around.