When Life Strikes, Vomit Out The Excess

I chew my food and I spit it out,
I hang upside down on the balance beam
and let loose with all my shouts.
Nothing is as it seems.

I spray-paint my hair with amino acids and some,
peering into the world over its dusty rim.
I puke my stomach out to kingdom come;
nothing is as it seems.

I dream of neurotic cats in ridiculous top hats,
I write in diaries stained with memories of him,
and those of others—guess who’s the First-class rat.
Really, nothing is as it seems.

Anorexia is a metaphor for the story of my life;
I am swimming in envy and drowning in dreams,
Eskalith being my imagined drug of choice away from all this strife.
Everything is bad, and everything is as it seems.

I don’t know why, I don’t see how
we’re getting ourselves out of this mess.
This land we’ve fucked up some and turned into a farce somehow.
I’m still projectile vomiting, from all the force-fed excess.