just kill me now

It's like the pieces all fit together
my crooked smile that takes up most of my face
a giant mouth, aching to say everything
that has never been said before
squinted slivers of green eyes: tinted with jealousy, envy
greed... all the lusts of life uninhibited there
pushed back into my face, noticeable to all who look closer
to the few I allow past my walls
To the world they hide behind camouflaging brown specs
humble, like a superhero's disguise.
But sometimes I'd love to wear a green wig
put on a cape and fly
to show the world how impossible originality is.
Someone has probably done it before.

My face fits me somehow,
not entirely symmetrical but I perceive it as beautiful
because it is my own, and in that I can be unique
unless I become famous one day and someone gets plastic surgery to look like me.
But what are the odds of that?


If you don't appreciate yourself, how is anyone else going to?

Is it weird that I feel empty without a pencil in my hand?

Words floating out of imagination
usually nonsensical things
but they make me laugh... quietly to myself
sharing secrets with voices in my head
an impartial audience with box-seats to the show of my life.
They laugh with me and cry with me,
and sometimes they throw popcorn at the screen...
You know, in the parts where you know something bad is going to happen
and you yell at the main character, but they do it anyways.


The measure of perfection is how many times
I smile without meaning to during the day.