Chill out.

I'm not having a nervous breakdown.

I'm out of vitamins

And might be suffering from lamentation—

I'm not spending any money

And my whole life is backed up

I like, really need a hug

But all these broke dirty brown dudes

Remind me of my ex, so

No.

No thank you.

It's not a color, it's an energy.

You can be white and be brown—

—you can be black and be white.

You can be white and goddamned purple.

But if the vibe's not right,

And the smell is off.

I'm better off going it alone,

Until I put in enough work

To be impressive to somebody

That impresses me.

—what did you create today?

Vibe check.

The problem is,

I like guys

That everybody likes.

The Standard.

I dig creatives,

And well-groomed

Uppercut, upper class

Gentlemen

I like dudes who know how to dress themselves

Without it a woman

But still know how to respect them.

I like possessive guys

That are protective

Without getting angry—

All humanity granted,

I prefer silence to violence,

And getting a chance to be —

Nevermind.

I just like being alone—

But I need a hug

And I rub my own sore muscles

But it's not the same.

I want to die,

But not because I'm sick

Because the world is,

And I just realized,

That that shit is contagious.

I don't feel good.

I'm not having a nervous breakdown.

I'm out of vitamins and fruit and vegetables.

I guess you could beat my face in if you wanted to—

But don't blame me for talking to much,

When I shut up

Just to get rid of motorcycles

That I was made to think

Were all in my head

But as it turns out

Are very much real,

Very much loud,

Very much illegal,

Very much abusive

And very much toxic.

You can go ahead and beat my face in—

—but at least let me finish eating lunch first

Just in case my jaw cracks,

Like last time

And I can't chew anything

Or my tongue is too swollen to swallow.

—just let me finish lunch first.

Just—

Leave me alone.

I'd leave New York if I had the money to.

The only places I want to work won't hire me.

Being a DJ is like being a building in New York.

(They're everywhere and if you throw a rock, you'll probably hit one.)

The terrorists on my block ride motorcycles.

Nobody stops them or seems to care besides me,

They tend to attack when I'm trying to rest.

Maybe I shouldn't rest.

Maybe I should just die instead.

I am, after all—

Kind of useless.

I am—

After all—

Kind of worthless.

I am, after all,

Not skinny, or pretty

Not seeing anybody in my league as

Attractive at all

And therefore

Must be

Purposeless.

I'm not having a nervous breakdown,

I'm out of nutrition.

I'm not a gold digger,

Because if I were,

I wouldn't be so picky with looks.

I don't care about money so much as creativity and emotional maturity.

I'm not having a nervous breakdown,

I'm out of vitamins.

—what did you create today?

“Whatever, man”

I had half a mind to move the alter into my studio and force myself to fall back asleep, complicit with the fact that I was two days away from spinach and whatever other vitamins I was lacking. I was so tired and sore, and had run out of multivitamins days ago. Maybe this was the lasting effect of ever having taken vitamins and then stopping, and it seemed a cruel gesture to do anything but soak, knowing over all I should walk away from the world entirely. It was beginning to feel a lot like there was no escape from the constant and persistent ask to the universe for peace, protection, and wealth—and no end to the work that had been done, but had yielded not much to prosper.

I think that's the point though, so that you second guess your own judgement—

That your intrinsic sense of energy

Seems to have betrayed you

And leaves you somewhat altered.

I could have sworn she had blue eyes.

She did.

Maybe they change.

That much?!

Who knows. Maybe.

One must only be bitten by a dog one good time to learn that dogs can be dangerous—and yet— I had been bitten by the blue eyed many a times and still had somehow found my way into forgiveness, if not for my own sake.

Maybe she was wearing contacts.

I used to.

I had been thinking about investing in new colored contacts to make my eyes appear lighter, and a blonde wig to soften up the dark tan I had gotten unintentionally going about in the summer—still thought, it had been a long summer of not doing anything but going to the food bank, writing, and spinning in circles about how to make money. Long bouts of trying to shut out my old life from my new one, pushing my divorce, and becoming separated entirely from anything once having to do with my name at all. Within reason, I had suffered considerably over nothing, and despite my efforts, there seemed there was nothing I could do to find gains in my own creativity. There was only seeking and never really finding, the things I needed but none of the things I wanted. Everything I owned had been once owned by someone else, besides the few items I should have not even considered my own, but belonging to the world almost as much as I had. I was tired, consistently grief stricken, and felt unwelcome entirely by the entire world—or at least—an entire generation of people that were my own, but had learned not to respect what I had become— broke, and in turn, broken.

Sometimes I want to cry like Marcy D'Arcy in the 6th season of Married With Children.

I only smile when I see the color yellow and then dream of him,

Seeking nothing but solace

At the concourse, we converse momentarily

And then go our separate ways

Forever and always

Forever and always

Your secrets

I smell like dirt

And arrived in the real world

Covered in blood

And scraped over the,

Over the knees,

Yes I did

Come recover then,

What you've lost from the world

Born in chaos, not quite

But almost, as we're once swarmed the waters

Lee it better quiet, now

Keep it better quiet now,

Keep it better quiet now, your secrets

There lies no tru loyalty to bands tied

On middle fingers

Besides to one's own self

And they who they shall

Desire and claim as another

Extention of God,

In her

Or their arms

There is no claim to faith or mercy

Than what comes between us,

Bombshells

As argued in chaos

—mother, you're not listening

To the call of the wild

Then now,

How am i bound to that besides being

In sanctity

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

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