The Simpleton's Routine [Final Draft]

Let me know which one you guys like better. <3

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You know he does not care;

quite honestly, you do not  care either.

It is merely a ritual you attend to every Wednesday afternoon at three,

Your mind accompanying his, two pleasant companions on a familiar journey, perhaps to a different continent.

There none of this exists and there is only white, which you grope at curiously with your fingers.

In truth, the gross graphic detail of your tea party bores him spectacularly;

Meaningless strings of words, of nothing, to fill nothing.

But it’s better than the painful long silences that so often clog up the gaps in both of your conversations

(the nervous holes shaking until you both freeze in your  skins).

So while your mouth flaps seemingly obliviously in the breeze,

He paces around heavily, in his mind, observing another world that’s he located far too many times before.

Even you can see the foam bubbles exploding from his mind;

Stumble-stuttering as they escape from holes in his skull with some difficulty,

The images run blankly through his head, 

black-and-white film that dully graces the flat landscape, the washing-machine interior of his brain.

You imagine bacteria; worms where his thoughts have begun to decay, being uselessly tossed aside,

perhaps added with some salt in case you want to save them for later.

You’ll return to the pile every once in a while to peruse them;

discard the ones that have grown unbearable to look at (or, indeed, even touch without rubber gloves).

But you can’t pretend to see colors where there isn’t anything;

He can’t either, however much he would like to.

(But he does not speak of it,

and neither do you.)

Instead you sit, and he smiles,

and together you observe the hollow shape of your brains,

the silence that cowers beneath the constant clamor of your voice--

the pleasant emptiness, the stringing hum of words that run effortlessly through your tongue

straight through his ears; neurotically, with plastered twin anxious grins all the while,

secretly fingering the strings and passing them between the two of you nervously with shaking fingers.

A pleasant chat over tea every Wednesday afternoon.

(in-prog) you become a virus when you die, didn't you know

You see them you stretch your hands back--
Fucked into your skin like nails on a corkboard are
every word you’ve ever typed
tattooed and resplendent,
staring back at you with faint ghosts of the keystrokes still imprinted on your fingertips.

Pretty soon the concrete rain will start to dissolve into your skin
And the plastic keyboard will eat your brain
starting at your fingertips
making its way down to your toes
until you melt into the screen

(You’ll become a virus when you die
Didn’t you know?)

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Still unfinished...this one is from all the way back in January ;o
(Where does the time go?)

The Simpleton’s Routine

The grossly graphic detail of your tea party bores him spectacularly

But it’s better than the painful long silences that so often get stuck between the gaps in your teeth,

clogging up the gaps in your conversation like nervous holes.

So he paces around heavily, in his mind, observing another world

While your mouth flaps seemingly obliviously in the breeze.  

You know he does not care;

quite honestly, you do not  care either.

It is merely a ritual you attend to every Wednesday afternoon at three,

Your mind accompanying his, two pleasant companions on a familiar journey, perhaps to a different continent.

There none of this exists and there is only white, which you grope at curiously with your fingers.

Meaningless strings of words, of nothing to fill the silence.

You can see the images running blankly through his head,  

Black-and-white film dully gracing the flat landscape, the washing-machine interior of his brain.

Even you can see the foam bubbles exploding from his mind, escaping from the holes of his skull with some difficulty. 

You imagine bacteria, worms where his thoughts have begun to decay, being uselessly tossed aside, perhaps added with some salt in case you want to save them for later.

You don’t pretend to see colors where there isn’t anything;

You’ll return to the pile every once in a while to peruse them; discard the ones that've become too painful to look at.

He does not speak of it,

And neither do you.

The pleasant emptiness, the humming of words, runs effortlessly through your tongue and through his ears.

A balm that blocks out the deafening silence threatening to spill out heavy through the window.

Instead you sit, and he smiles, and together you silently observe the hollow shape of your brains,

The silence that cowers beneath the clamor of your voice

While you finger the delicate puppet strings between you nervously, neurotically, plastered twin anxious grins;

A pleasant chat with tea every Wednesday afternoon.

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Another poem from my Creative Writing class last year. <3

Okay.

So I'm going to follow the trend and post my angsty teenage poetry. xD
Prepare to be confused.
Deeply.
(I'm not even sure what they all really mean myself)

Tour of the back of your head

Well, sit down; make yourself welcome.

You haven’t been here in a while.
This is my squat while I’m the job; I know, it’s a right fairytale palace--

dirty clothes strewn over all the broken mirrors, spare and broken and faded;

--more like a junkyard, actually. But then again, what'd you expect?

You’ve neglected it for quite some time.

Oh, as you stroll down the corridor, you might have forgotten a face or two from the portraits in the halls

…don’t worry, though, it happens to everyone.

Bathroom? Oh yeah, down the hallway on your left.

(Warning: the cleaning maintenance has gotten pretty lazy.)

The sink chokes and sputters before the water at last breaks through.

Discolored reflections split in the water as they fall from the faucet in strangely uneven proportions, leaking painfully, staining streaks down the sides of the sink 
before they finally disappear and become completely unidentifiable. 
They seem to smile at you as they pass down.

(Don't worry about it, they probably forgot you just as easily.)

--You ready to go now? Awesome.

You arrive at the main feature; your old bedroom.

…Oh, it's my bed frame, you supply weakly.
(but cracks lead in a hundred paths. It’s rotted in a myriad of places you didn’t even notice before, places you didn’t even realize existed.

Your old face glimpses in and out from the holes of what’s left of the wall, a tired hungry phantom weaving in and out through the last wisps of its days.)

Don’t be a stranger! Say hello! Ooh, doesn’t look like it’s too happy to see you. Uh…

What's that? Oh, that—that’s a dream machine. Gives you toxic cancer, you know, you can’t breathe for days;

--You wanna try? You sure? (You crazy? What drugs did you take while you were gone anyway?)

…Well, alright then, if you're sure. Close your eyes. Breathe. 

Slowly, you sink down through the floor…

Through a slot of a telescope, you observe the keyboard-smash of heart against ribcage.

A helpless struggle, like sand out of an hourglass,

Striking beautiful notes on the piano keys --made of real human bone, you know.

Consistent, efficient bruises. Runs 24/7.

(It's slower than you remember? Well, it’s not like it's a machine...)

Through a second slot, a face turns towards you.

Its sad twisted contours suddenly form a flower gasping for air; 
inspiring strangers to back away, its emaciated head pokes through the bars;

Suddenly it’s a Jack-in-the-Box. 
Poor, crying, out-of-tune…All the notes already choked out of his throat from prior screaming. 

You can see the poor life he’s led; his make-up has lost its stark scare.

His spring sinks back down into the earth, sunken and soggy,

then suddenly flails about wildly, carving incomprehensible words into the terrace
desperately, as though trying to send you a message before you leave.

Abruptly melting mirrors cascade down the walls around him like syrup…

--Hey, wanna try another slot?

No? You’ve seen enough?

Wanna go back? Sure. (Told you. Wuss.)

When you awake, you’re curled up on your bed with your arms around your knees;

a pose you haven’t been in since you were a kid.

The grinning dumbass from the maintenance crew stares at you expectantly, still grinning, hands extended. 
You blink. And then impatiently drop a handful of coins into his waiting hand. As he walks happily away, whistling some obscene tune from the ‘90s, you roll your eyes and turn back and suddenly find yourself staring at your old walls, like they suddenly walked into the room. 

For some reason you can't tear your eyes away; when you finally do, 
you notice there’s a piece of paper on your bed in front of you, faded and slightly wrinkled.

‘YOU ARE HERE’

is written in the center of a large box drawn with black marker.

You blink. The rest of the page is blank. You start turning it over, looking for any extra marks. There’s nothing else.

For some reason this causes you to break into a cold sweat.

The walls start collapsing around you. But some reason you find you don’t care. You want to sit here on this bed and never move, hugging your teddy bear as it takes it down with you. The maintenance crew starts to shout. 
Your eyes slowly start to drift shut…

Melting mirrors cascade down along with the walls around you like syrup…

…Right before your consciousness completely blurs, you think you see a face drifting out the window…

When they find the scene, the only thing they find intact amongst the rubble and melted silver is, oddly enough, a piece of paper, strangely pristine, untouched, as though marked by the hand of some god.

However, when they pick it up, there’s nothing on it. The surface is completely blank.