StarbeatsKid• Show poetry

I should preface the entirety of this biography by saying; I am partially full of shit and completely on the verge of becomming wholly insane. Let’s talk about dreams though. When I first started writing this it began “I was born into a family of Nicaraguan prostitutes who made toast for drug pushers on the side.” Then I realized how stupid that was. Why would Nicaraguan prostitutes care about toast? I don’t even know if they have toast in other countries, except maybe in France, but my reasons behind that logic might be undoubtedly flawed. Anyways the original story progressed into a fantastical tale about my imaginary third nipple, duffle bags, anorexic opium smokers, and the one time when Richard Simmons and Ru Paul recreated the Cell Block Tango from the hit Musical Chicago using only three kidney beans and the backside of a donkey. I assure you however, that the story was uninteresting.

I am a girl who, like the majority of my generation, is a dreamer.

I only like yellow roses, I love the color orange. I hate the way crabapples smell in the rain, but you already knew that. The feeling of whole unbitten and ripe insanity comes and goes as quickly as deja vu. I am secretly as easily pleased as a toddler and lately the only thing that gratifies my energy is playing in the leaves. I aspire to meet a bearded lady, but I would hate to be one. I do not do cocaine, and I do not know any celebrities, but sometimes I wish I did. I would snort a line with Edward Norton over Brad Pitt any day.