cosmic notations

I wrote this “poem” over 2 years ago. I used to be a very angsty and narcissistic person.

“

Most poetry is personalized fragments of non-chronological anecdotes and analogies and metaphors and similes that somehow convey their message of relatable naivety about love, despair, and family and friends, and being driven mad by a bird that flew into your house while you were crying over your dead wife. Sometimes run on sentences.

I am not relatable. I am me. Look a fragment, I f**king hate it.

I wake up to a hypnotized self on the pretty side of a mirror. He is so proud of who I have become. I cannot use my anecdotes because you will never understand, but I am full of sympathy. I do not convey my analogies because they are too old.

My new self is perfect, past nonexistent, growth ever-coming.

I am nonchalantly stepping over invisible dead bodies so I can pin the tail on a donkey. I am not blind, but everyone else is blindfolded. Even so, I still perform and they still clap.

I don’t have to explain myself to you.

F**k you. You don’t deserve my story. Please understand where I am coming from. I don’t want to hear yours, I am too busy with mine. Also because I already know everything about you, I never met you, so don’t use any of my sentences to define yourself, you unhumble asshole.

My assumptions overrule your mundane past and grotesque sexual conquests but I will use all your stories to choose the worst and best about you. Black and white, I will abhor or love you. Either or, no juxtaposition, throw it out. Also too common in poems, so I already made up my mind.

You are a human, but you talk to me thinking you are the most interesting and experienced person in the room. You crave my attention like a dog. I see it, you are a desperate person too afraid to change their situation.

You think I am better looking than you, I am. You think I am wiser than your father, I am. You think you strike me vexed with off-handed tangents about the skeletons and magic wands in your closet and under your bed like you’re living in a fairy tale. Yes, but I am using every brain cell to act like I am awestruck.

You think, therefore I am. You’re not interesting. Unless you’re on a synthetic stimulant that shuffles and skips and strides for two or eight hours, which has a right of way to your neurons. Get out of my face or quit your job. Cut me off or stop spending money on fast food. Stop texting me or go to the gym. Choose one, I know you f**king know you have to. Do it now or never do it. Come do this line with me. It mixes well with alcohol, trust me. It does. No really try it.

Most poetry is bullshit. It’s all ambiguous analogies, cluttered comparability, and meta metaphors. It’s f**cking stupid.

“

There was something very profound about rereading the line about pinning the tail on a donkey. Profound in a sense like you went back in time to warn yourself of who you may become.

There is no ‘you’. In fact, I think I am talking to myself.

Forest