Pretty pedophile

I itch all over but don’t even care.

My culture is my own and no one around has my culture.
My thoughts are repeating
My ears are vibrating behind my head.
1940’s teen culture.
I just wanna go up to people and say “hey you match the archetype of this person I was supposed to meet at this point of my life.”
The slimy stoner kid.
The posh pretty princess.
The awkward adult.
A bad role model.
I need a think tank to float around in.
Plastic lifestyle.
Amazonian crocodile.
Look dad, I ran one mile.
Spoiled only child.

Pretty pedophile.

The man I cannot see

If i sat down in a damp room.
With the glass windows.
Then I would get that impulse.
That one I don’t know exists.
I ran for them.
But they refused to take one step for me.
They all have that lively glow in their eyes.
Mine don’t even flicker.
So where do I go from here.
Obviously somewhere I fit in.
Isn’t it blatantly clear?

All I wanted was a small 2 room apartment In a dirty nieghborhood.
With all the open spaces covered in artificial foliage.
Nice furniture, and those windows made of the glass blocks.
That would be nice.

Sorry god, I’ll try to do better next time.
And if there isn’t a god.
Well then fine, good day sir.
The man I cannot see.
It’s me.

Wish list

Wish I wasn’t lazy.
Wish I wasn’t crazy.
Wish I wasn’t always angry.
Wish I didn’t have dyslexia.
Wish I was good at school.
Wish I was good at something.
Wish I could make my parents happy.
Wish I didn’t always feel crappy.
Wish I could display emotion.
Wish I wasn’t always creating commotion
Wish I wasn’t given what I don’t deserve.
Wish I could move on.
Wish I didn’t think about you still.
Wish I could find a solution.
Wish I wasn’t an asshole.
Wish I had it.
Fuck logistics.

(Source: rude-grrrls, via velcro-mind)


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