applegize.

First of all, I had no intention of not writing since February.  In fact, I believe I have written 3 blogs since my last.  Good 'ol bloggy blogspot, though, seems to be ignoring me. Obscene. Watch, all the sudden they are going to show up, and I'll be redundant and look like a dunce. To conical hats! Whatever, here's a poem.

I wish I were a bricklayer,
bricking a perfect wall.
Or a paper-pusher in a visor.
Just not what I am at all.

My sentence structure's boring,
my fashion doesn't match.
I cannot get a suntan
and I cannot throw or catch.

I wish I were a deep sea diver,
restoring sunken boats.
But I cannot even swim in pools.
I cannot even float.

I wish I weren't so whimsical,
or looked into the stars.
Maybe I should be a scientist,
or learn to work with cars.

I cannot seem to self-improve.
I don't really get much better.
I won't ever be a "girl of dreams,"
Some guy will have to settle.

Settle for a dreamer.
An unmatched, tacky dreamer.
With cheap knowledge
and the desire to rhyme "femur" with "dreamer."

You're so, so pretty.
And I'm so, so plain.
And sadly on the inside,
I'm really quite insane.

So instead of writing a love poem,
which I'd really like to do,
I'm apologizing for my lacklusters,
and my mediocrities to you.

6a^2

Hi hello.
I got this thing item for you and yourself.
It is a surface area.
It is not a volume.
It is large and soft.
Feel free to do anything you like with it,
please, just don't call it ugly.
You may draw upon it with washable inks,
and you may cut it open.
Just do not call it ugly.
You may tell it everything you are thinking,
 but do not call it ugly.
You may hit it and quit it.
You may ejaculate upon it.
Just do not call it ugly.
This surface area is ugly.
Do not call this surface area ugly.
This surface area hates the obvious.
But this surface area loves you.
This surface area will do your laundry.
It is ugly.
It is a surface area.
It is not a volume.
It is not a mass.
It is a surface area for you.
I got this for you.
I have a surface area for you.

Losing touch.

This seems like it used to be an outlet.  Now, not so much. Over time, I feel as though Here Lies got its own personality. And I think it started to clash with mine, honestly.  Moreover, I have, frankly, had no desire to talk about the events of my life in metaphor. Don't take that in a pathetic way, Nothing mentionable has been happening.  And I mean that in nothing absolutely mentionable, nor positively unmentionable has been happening. Lord knows I like to blog about my various unmentionables.

But things are solidly simple. Pretty plateau, bland.  The highlights of my day are delusional outlooks on the future, and daydreams.  I dig my routine, and a few times a week breaking it, just because.  I've gotten really into taking vitamins. But I feel like the make me smell less like a human, and more like a vegetable.  And as my logic goes, this is why I have become undesirable to humans.  Perhaps if I took shark cartilage (I wouldn't, sharkys are pretty badass and are animals) I would appeal to a more aggressive, outgoing crowd? Right now, I think I attract earthworms and barnacles.  Simple, monochromatic, earthly little things.

Slumpin'.  I feel like a metric ton.  I even wrote a poem about it.  I think it'd make a better song.

The Metric Tons.
I swallowed and anvil,
and since I used to be bulimic,
(I'm recovered now),
I can't throw this up.
And it's so heavy,
it makes me spin
and sweat
and remember
When my tons slumped into the couch
after hinting
on the bleachers at the big game
or the lockers
before the sock hop and milkshakes.
Would you like to dance?
And hold my hand?
Though, I know your calendar
is tighter than my stockings,
just say okay,
write me in
and throw it away.
And slide me another anvil
with some silence to apologize
for a fortnight.
While I spin, sweat, and salivate
some more...
Catch it all in a colander
and drain it atop
The Frozen Lake
and observe it freeze and adhere
to all my other discarded times,
and collect data of my tons.
Dreaming about my real identity,
Rhinoceros Girl.