Unless it's a spring rose in decay

Or some other sort of horrendous display

Of shattered love on a winter's day

I'm not interested, go away.

If you want me to pay attention

To whatever important news that you may have

Well I'll be glad to stray in your direction

But I'm telling you it's got to be really bad

Really bad it's got to be

To get a reaction out of me

Baby pictures just won't cut it

Give me broken toes or stuff it

I don't care about the rain

Or your spiritual pain

Did you miss your train today?

Not my problem, I'm afraid.

I'm not interested

I made a point, you missed it.

Why don't you go and test it

On your own reflection?

I'm not interested

You made a point but I missed it.

I'm not interested

Go away.

Walking round the outskirts of town

You'd see him craving like a raven on birdseed

And they'd be crowding all around him like the Trevi fountain

They'd be waiting for his latest insanity

He knows their eyes are all upon him as he prowls the street

And one can only wonder,

Are you mad? 

Well I don't care what they try to tell me to do...

How about you?

If only they could see what I see!

They're all so law-abiding

They're crying for poor little me

Well I'm happy as can be.

Watch him go, that poor little soul

You'd see him raving and parading his lunacy

We'd always find him on the ground and give him sound advice

But he would simply shoot us down with his scornful eyes

He knows he's got a great advantage over our little lives

'Cause he's the only one who can say,

I don't care.

If only they could see what I see

They're all so law-abiding 

They're crying for poor little me

I know them! but they sure don't know me

They're all chained to their happy discomfort

As numb as can be

While I'm full of energy.

One day he walks into the local church to plead

We all hold our breath and await with excited foreboding

What was it he held in his hand?

We tried to understand

He needed some cash for an illegal prescription for morphine

Are you mad?

Are you mad??

No! Go to hell!

I'm all right!

Just shouted at the priest last night!

Why must you all worry my mind?

Won't you just hear me out

You know there's no doubt

All I speak is truth.

You can rate me

By what I create

Well I can tell you now,

I've created nothing.

I'm feeling brainless

Feeling grey

Oh, what am I to do today?

Seems pretty hopeless

Still unchanged

Oh, what a happy day.

It's easy, baby, as 1, 2, 3

All this shit just frightens me

My mind is so in touch with me

Full of self-pity

This is my complaint:

All I can ever hear is my repetitive brain.

Leave me and I will stay

Stay unchanged for another day.

I wish I was crazy

Wish I was dumb

Why must I have opposable thumbs?

Seems pretty hopeless

I'll never change

Oh, what another wonderful day.

It's easy, baby, as 1, 2, 3

All this shit just frightens me

My mind is so in touch with me

Full of self-pity

Woe is me...

Heyo big brother

I fancy your friend

I know it’s a bummer

But it’s hard to pretend

Your friend is smokin’

He’s hot as can be

… Must be hard as a tree!

He’s earthy and lean

I sure as hell am not jokin’

I saw in my mind’s eye

I saw the entire scene

It was hot, he was mine

Don’t know what else to say

Guess it’s wrong in a way

He’s practically married

And I’m heavily involved

It’s a hard load to carry

I gotta move on.

The future lives on!

“Once I was carefree...”

But was I ever?

Light and careless as a feather?

Did I feel the wind brush its way

Through plaited hair as I seized the day?

Doesn't seem like I could say.

I know it's dull to hear my whines

My worries and unfounded fears

It's been the same throughout the years

As far as I recall I've cried.

Time and time again

I try and try to clean my slate

But I'd like to thrive instead.

I can't move on, my past hangs on

To threads of failure

And delusions of grandeur

Clever thoughts and insecurities combined

Make up an imprecise internal life.

What would Buk do?

Just sit and write

Maybe seven or eight poems every night.

What did Buk say?

Rhymes are unnecessary rules

I say to hell with that, rhymes are my jewels.

How bad was that?

It was terrible, what can I say

It'll get better if I try every day.

...

I had so many thoughts up there

Fag in mouth, eyes up in the air

It seemed great while it lasted

But sadly, they've all gone up in smoke.

Buk cared not for puncuation, style and grammar

In fact I altered that sentence for style

I think I thrive on roughness and glamor.

They all give me chills

Those writers of old,

Hem, Fitz and Twain

Something fresh, rich and bold.

But then I get hooked in

Vonnegut's experiments, Fitz's gin

Miller's yage, Kerouac's bennie

It all seems so obvious, artists can't speak

Without something to unleash a taped-up beak

To tear through conditioning, observe and then wreak

Havoc upon the unwelcoming publique.

How cheap was that?

Hell, I don't know.

I'll keep rhyming until you forget it and go.

Who mixes languages to make poetry work?

I do, that's who, I'm a trilingual jerk.

Try and tell me what to do...

But if you pay me, I'll do my best

To create the same junk that inspires the rest:

Those others that define the ways of the world.

I do nothing to contribute

They do, though, they pile up to help

To change things that need to be done

They pile up to defend the earth, the water, the sun

I agree the world is not at its best

But when has our race been an

ything other than two-faced?

I don't know anything really, and I'm proud to say

Socrates was around to name it

Long before my gene pool even existed to proclaim it

And I know that I know nothing

A phrase so commonly translated

From the Greek that made it famous

I know that I know nothing!

I'm proud to say

Not many are out there today

Who will admit it before they open their mouths to play

Topics like politics, society and laws

They speak of ignorant masses

When they are the ones that debilitate us

...

Pacing around looking for tobacco

And then a lucky break!

But next moment:

Pacing around looking for paper

A sad existence is the one

Dictated by a drug

Although....

Aren't we all, really, grasping at straws to avoid doing what hurts

That's the stuff that really works

It's OK, I'm doing it right

Gotta keep looking

Right

I ended swallowing my pride and venturing downstairs to the pub to fetch some rolling papers. Tight-jawed, pyjama-clad and zoned-out, I managed to: squeeze my way past drunken strangers enjoying their night out, strike up a conversation with an awkward acquaintance and a friend I'd said goodbye to a couple of hours earlier, and finally convince the manager on duty to kindly provide me with some god damned rolling papers, which I had just spent an inordinate amount of time trying to locate in my countless belongings.

Why do I worry? That can only be answered with mockery. If you only knew what it is I worry about.

I’m a young woman, in my early twenties. I’m beautiful, intelligent, from a well-off family, have always been loved and showered in adoration from men, family, even strangers. Let the pathos begin.

I’m so worried about my future. Normal enough? I’m so worried that I let go of incredible opportunities to study in incredible places to become someone incredibly rich and successful. For I could have done it; but if I had, I would have worried that I could not sit down and study for boredom, for fear of wasting my youth. I worried that my father would spend too much money on me; and so I settled for something cheaper, yet still expensive, and which would not get me anywhere without passion, or so I worry: a degree in pop music. And so I worry.

I have my youth, I have my free time, my beloved part-time job, I have my loves. And so I worry that I spend too much time on them and not enough on my degree, however worrisome it may be. And so I worry that I do not fully appreciate these blessings I have, because they are interfering with my degree, which worries me anyway!

I’m worried that I’m smart, and I’m right, but it all stays in my brain because I can’t be bothered to formulate anything transmissible. And what if I’m not right, and I will never know, and live a lie, a stupid, one-sided, simple-minded lie?

I worry that I will be poor! That I will regret this frivolousness of youth, when I am older and wiser and poorer. I’m disgusted that my father still supports me as I only have ten hours of classes a week. I wonder how I would survive without it; and I worry at how I treat him in spite of that. I’m worried about my mother; I’m worried about my mother’s dog, whom I love excruciatingly. I worry about that love, because how will I ever love another dog like that?

Pets are pretty important to me.

I used to be worried that said dog, that I grew up with, didn’t like or respect me. I’ve grown out of that one since, thank god. She’s a dumb animal and I love her to death.

I’m worried that when she dies, how will my mom get along? She will be so lonely. That dog, I’m telling you, is a gift from the Earth itself. She is the funniest, most precious, most silly and most intelligent dog in the world. How will anyone get along, really, for such an event would probably displace the rotation of the stars (I’m worried about my knowledge of astronomy). I’m worried that I didn’t follow up with my childhood ambitions to become a veterinarian to create some sort of longevity drug for dogs. What is with that lifespan, anyway? We’ve domesticated them to the core; we couldn’t go one step further? Who am I to talk, anyway, when have I done accomplished anything close to selective breeding or biology?

I’m worried about all the clutter in my room, and all my roommates abusing it while I’m gone. I’m worried about my clean sheets having someone else in them. I’m worried that because I forbid it, I will make people want to spite me and do it even more, and I hate washing my sheets. I’m worried that I might smell and no one will tell me, and my boyfriend only likes my smell anyway so he won’t tell me, either. Also, I’m worried that I’m too sensitive and people might be worried to tell me anything worrying.

I’m worried about everything I should be doing that I’m not. I’m worried about the multitude of things yet to experience that I’m either too afraid to, too rational to, or too lazy to. I’m worried about my laziness. I want to experience youth, but I have the mind of a septuagenarian. I wanted to use that word; it’s a shit word. I could have said “old woman” and kept it simple, like my literary hero, George Orwell, would have said. I wish I could write like him.

I’m worried that I worry too much and that I will age. I’m worried about gaining weight, and I’m worried about losing my curves if I lose weight. I’m worried that if I worry, I will jinx everything. I don’t believe in jinx, but I do, because the mind affects the body and the mind, and that is worrisome in itself, because I’m worried I can’t trust my own mind. And yet I’m so stable and sane; I’m worried I’m kind of boring because of that. What’s up with that?

Speaking of boring, I’m worried that someone reading this might tell me: “Oh, you. This is all completely normal, what you’re feeling. Everyone has thoughts like this and most people get out of it. Don’t you worry about a thing, you’re a smart, pretty girl, I know you’ll do well.”

Now THAT is something that worries me. People’s belief in me (and also, being normal). And my father’s disbelief in me. Both sides equally repulse me. I wish people would just… you know, I don’t even know what I wish, because I don’t really like most people anyway, and instead of just disliking them, I’m afraid of them (why?). I want to make my mother proud, and my father eat his words of doubt, and to impress everyone else, and use all my money to make my mother happy. I’m worried I won’t get that money, because back when I was a kid and I played this online pet game, I was only moderately rich on it and never got to that serious luxury level of playing. Well, if at least I get moderately rich, you know. I’m worried that this is all talk, and I want to help her but I’ll end up not, because I’m so lazy and I hate myself for being so lazy, and I hate myself for hating myself for being so lazy because it’s just such a pointless thing to even write down in secret.

I’m worried about my musical tastes stagnating, I’m worried about my hard disk dying and losing my data, I’m worried about something spilling on my computer, I’m worried about my attachment to inanimate objects and clothing, I’m worried about my inanimate objects and my clothing. I’m worried about friends and also not caring about friends. Do I care or do I not? Doesn’t not caring attract people anyway? What if, with me, it doesn’t? What am I even talking about? I’m worried about my egotism and the amount of times I use the word “I” or “me” in conversations and just everything.

I gave an interview once for this online magazine thing where I was interning. And I had to hold myself back nearly every time from replying with a comparison to my own self.

I am not empirical or the base of all humanity!

I’m worried that writing this might not be so therapeutic after all, and who even had this idea? My stupid brain? What if I make it all worse? What if this makes me age faster? What if

And I’m so worried about the baggage retrieval system they’ve got at Heathrow.

If walls had ears, I'd live outside. 

Surely wouldn't it defy 

The whole purpose of walls

And end up being their demise?

If walls had ears, we'd hesitate

When buying a piece of real estate.

I know I would, at least

I know I want my privacy.

Now you're wondering, I assume

What it is I'm trying to hide

What goes on in there, you pry.

They'd smell more than they could hear

Lemme tell you,  I'd dope them up

Before leaking any secrets in here

But wait - would they have brains, too?

'Cause if it's just ears, my point is moot

And do they have mouths with which to speak?

I don't much care for abusing the weak.

With ears and minds, a sad demise

For a poor, poor wall who has to stand tall

And have no say in whoever lives there

That sentient wall will learn to care

For its well-being, and that of its ceiling

Its doors and its paint, wait - would it not suffocate?

Hold it a minute, this has gone too far.

What a cruel theme, full of human arrogance

I say down with this website and its extravagance

Pretty soon we'll be humanising cars!

God knows they'd suffer too, if they had the tools

A brain and some eyes would be enough to prove

What slavery they've succumbed to under our rule

I've said save the birds, save the earth, save the sea

And now I've decided to stand up for machines!