Tag: Thought Process

I suppose in so many ways,
I talked about how we wear the same thing
And we wear it all different.

To our own accords.
You two, choose to Live-Rich for 10 years and get mad and sad and circumfronted when all the half to over a million dollar things
Get shit-out bc the people
You cared enough to buy it for
Or do for,
Either can’t live there
So you gave it away in a bustle
And now you’re sad
Because something that was symbolism for you-accomplishments.
Someone’s Southern Rome and Swiss Coast
Say Arreviderci like the English-do.
Bc they didn’t take care of it and now it’s a monument
To the attestment of your trust-issues.

I think everyone has felt this in the most dismal courts.
Probably at like a kindergarten lunch table.
Like where I learned – I still really love being an entrepreneur
And I’m sad the barter system seem infinite ages ago
And a finite system.
Then I think of that old christmas cartoon lineup- banger
Fuck yo silver+gold firebeard-man:
The Romans came off harsh,
But cynicism is often amongst marionettes
On some stage.

And I remember teaching kids how to make those with popsicle sticks.
A fresh pack, a blessing.
When my generation of a dismal like sorta 20 years ago bc we’re in our 20s
Still had to suck down the clearance popsicles to get the fruit-juice dye off the sticks.
Then I just used scented markers to enhance the berry-tint.

Call it Eveil, to be this ingenious.
Then tell me you’ve never seen someone at a fair ride a motorcycle in steel-global-cage,
And think it was bad-ass.
Though, totally unnecessary. By really any logical standard.

I was always a numbers gal.
Autism and being a female and coming from Bankers kinda led to it naturally.
I – felt so finite in words.
Any extortion to tell myself I don’t feel so defeated inside.
Expected more out of you.
Middle-fingers-breather-pose in sign-language for cochlear-patients – somehow just works when you’re a pissed off kid.
Somehow cracking knuckles, instead seems
Like i’m bout to start serving sandwiches.
Nitrogen build-up.
They blame it on cows.
I blame the broccoli and spinach.

What else to do,
But hope my snotty, gaseous filled eyes relax a bit
And my finders don’t twiddle
And my ring keeps shrinking – one of the worst I’ve seen.
And 78 Macrograms collected would make
Any dermatologists scream.

I joked of Mt.Vesuvius being on my chin.
Then I got diagnosed with PCOS during the brink of puberty that had already been around for awhile and I still didn’t have the confidence to say I needed razors and bras.
And I was bruh girl with no shame.
And unibrow-holder and stenciler and Frida-obsessed
Painting Georgia O’Keefe references in all my art.
Just to say they’re eyes.

And I never finished my own pussycat-pink hat;
Yet I made a many other loopy ones for others.
And it’s tuesday. [in my mind at least.]
Since I just checked and it’s actually Thursday and I’m
Thinking about what I wrote Tuesday.

Miles away in thought and I could pass 30 pieces and still be hung up on 13 days ago.
Just to see if I got anywhere in my own character –

I gotta keep seeing if I got anything to write.

I skipped the pork belly and crispy onion chips I dreamed of in excesse even just for chicken wings and hand-cut sweet potato fries only in oil + salt.
Ice Cubes eventually.
Threw some of those in the dryer too to beat the softner stains out.
Liquid-elixir and it took a couple months on new washer-and-dryer
For my leggings not to look detrimental
To my shame + modesty
And perpetual grace
To not feel like I’ve paved my way back to fuck-up.

Fuck-it-Up is the alternative,
Then I got bored and wonder how I’m gonna do it again.

And realize I live modestly,
And the fancy bejeweled en-croute lifestyle isn’t for me.

The first Microwaves were for instantaneous cooking,
But a flat discus astronaut-food hamburger in some kids movie
With a mach10mustacheman seemed like the~way~of~the~future.
Record History and Modern Society existed for roughly ~14,000
Years before that.
Sumeria. Landscape or record label, be killin’ it in ethic
And abundant versatile living-abodes.
And adobes make me think of the flowers again.
When I had no wall art.
Minimalism and 3 boxes is all it’d take to pack my life away.
I seceded from the idea and my vengeance to leave by 18 served its purpose for 18 years.
After that it just felt phony like climbing in the back of a orange-hippie’s van to sell ice cream and some fishy-groupie.
I did that too.
This Life or the Last; Both.