Everything is not as it should be

Exhibitionists on display,
3 comatose months without any pay--
it rains here every f*****g day.
The poor hold their signs,
The rich keep their signs in their wallets.
Keep the scared kitten in the tree,
keep the worm split in two halves
on that rainy day in April,
the words hit the sky like the last drag of your cigarette.
You speak in tongues.
Nicotine lungs breathe in smoggy Seattle air,
keep the addicts shaking under the bridge,
keep the depressed housewife hating her kids.
Upside-down billboards with lights burned out,
squeaky brakes and coffee-stained seats--
Your eyes lift from the floor three times;
one glance out the window,
one glance at your watch,
one glance at me.
Your thoughts hurt my ears;
rid me of this schizophrenic nature in which you exist.
You have become nothing but the voice in my head,
you are a f*****g ghost.
Tye-dyed black and blue... is all I am now.
The dirt under your nails, the calluses between your fingers...
Leave the suicidal poets in their own living hell,
Leave the sellout artists in their ritzy hotel,
Leave me here--
A whimpering lamb at your feet,
prideful lion, have your feast.
Discoveries we made watching the Discovery channel on your couch--
You are an animal.
Empty glasses, empty bottles litter the living room--
no one makes a sound.
The cherry blossoms don't look the same this year;
their pink color screams at me with embarrassment;
they are blushing under whispers and secrets.
Pen ink emits from my veins,
I look into empty eyes and a paled face--
please shatter all of my mirrors.
Leave the married couple fighting in the basement,
Leave the scared children thinking they don't exist.
My car veers off the road multiple times tonight.
The sunshine is mocking me;
"Look at what you used to be."
Dressed in black, its 80 degrees.
The last time my eyes were open, I was 16.
Explicatory and apologetic notes hidden under my mattress,

 a journal full of horror stories--
I've sacrified everything for you.
Leave the models with nothing on their plates,
Leave the romantics searching for their fates--
Destiny is nothing but a pretty word sweetheart.
The U.S. of A is not made up of united states;
its made up of broken narcissists and unafforable estates.
I hope you find yourself amidst all that plasticity,
and I hope you don't drown in your shallow seas
...maybe if you venture out a little deeper, you'll find me.
and maybe your two faces will morph into one, 
and your hot and cold temperatures will morph into a manageable warm.
On that rainy day in April,
the words hit the sky like the last drag of your cigarette,
"...I think we've run out of time"

Reviews

[Danijel]

Nice work. Glad to see some wisdom.