the boy with the thorn in his side

I've had reoccurring nightmares like yours,
only more lucid; only more real.
They follow me into my waking life,
haunting my hours before I even close my eyes.
You wrote a novella,
and stripped your mind naked
for the world to see,
to devour,
to fight viciously in a pathetic effort
to figure you out.
And they never will.

I find it hilarious.

I've told my one or two readers many times
of my dreams,
spelled out in metaphors and symbols,
heavily cryptic.
I've opened my mind and poured my thoughts,
memories, hopes, wishes, dreams..
and nightmares...
onto this blog.

What do I get?

Clarity I suppose.
Was that your reasoning for writing about The Boy?
To sort out the memories of such nightmares
in your mind, and to try and figure your own self out?

Aha, I hope you've found some distinction between
your illusions and your insanity.
I think you're mixing the two,
and suddenly your reality has become so surreal,
it's almost as if you're living in a dream.

Oh, but you are.

happy Father's Day papa cat

Dad.

I know you love me,
you know I love you.
We both know you're an absent role in my life,
hiding somewhere in the depths of hell
and poking your head up every few months
to check in on your one and only daughter.
I'd like to change that,
and I know you do too.

You're the biggest narcissistic,
self-loathing, sarcastic asshole known to man.
You're a walking contradiction
and I am your mirrored counterpart.
I am truly your daughter,
with our twisted sense of humor,
quick wit and sarcastic replies.
You keep me on my toes and
I keep your soles on the ground
(when we're together, that is)..

I love you papa cat,
and I hope you find peace soon.

Much love,

- Kitten

the evil popper

if there is anything I hate
more than everything in the world,
it would be the evil popper.
the popper is this gargantuan metal contraption
that spews out heroin-laced popcorn (not literally)
and laughs at me as I try to clean it.
it gargles out oil and salt
and spits its nasty black gunk
that seems to get stuck EVERYWHERE
on this giant beast.
it boils your face when you stand over it,
to bag the popcorn
or put more seeds in its mouth.

the funny thing is that I (and me alone)
have to clean this metal beast
whenever I'm working concession.
why, you ask?
well because I'm a newbie,
and they want me to be able
to clear the metal teeth of
the black gunk and salty kernels
without requiring help from fellow employees.
bullshit.
they want me to be swallowed whole
by the evil popper,
and spit out all puffed up and salty
just like the popcorn and the rest of my co-workers.

fuck the evil popper.
I would rather lick peanut butter
off of a hobo's infected toe
than clean the evil metal beast.

Mr. Wentz = envy

I hate how well you write.
Your lyrics are music and my words
in comparison are a 5 year olds,
trying to seem smart.

I go back over my old work
and then I read your thoughts
and suddenly I'm looking up at fireworks,
waiting for my spark.
I'd love to meet you.
Not just to say that I've met you.
I want to claw my way into your mind
to see if it's anything like mine;
a maze of thoughts..
Do we both think in rhymes?

The only thing I've ever written that's good
I sold to my blog and tumblr and the devil himself...
I'm sure its out there somewhere
as someone else's work.

I try to imitate you because you're what
initially inspired me to be whatever the hell this is..
but.... "Writers keep writing what they write"..
Right?

I am nothing but mediocre,
you make me make myself sick.

I hope you're happy,
living the life I want to live...
and you're so damn miserable.
I would give anything to be in your
oh so stylish shoes,
and you'd give anything
to be a goddamn normal human being.

Look at the way you think!
You're not normal!
I'm not normal!
We're not normal!

Fuck.

this is summer

we're racing the sun,
driving towards the light
that spills down from in between trees,
houses, and fences.
she hides behind the clouds,
her rays dripping from the holes
of blue in the gray masses.

the streets are lined in sunlight,

as the clouds move with the wind,

the light on the street moves too,

running away from us.

we're racing the sun.

perfect weather;
not too sunny, not too windy;
not too hot, not too cold.
this is the beginning;
this is summer.

kids are out on the street,
and its everything
of an ideal neighborhood.
children racing bikes,
some with the training wheels still attached.
women walk dogs and push strollers,
a couple walks down the block with a toddler.
a boy is playing ball with his father
in the front yard of their house,
two teenage girls walk the sidewalks
gossiping about they're latest crushes,
while their male counterparts gossip
about the latest video game releases.

this is summer.
and for my age,
the next three months is forever.
an infinity all rolled into 1/4 of a year.

this is summer

and I am ready.