Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.

Hi,I'm sincerelyW.W! I come on here every now and then and post. I have not posted that much and not many people see my work. I'm not very good but I enjoy getting to post for the few people that read my work. I've mostly posted ‘poems’ there… pretty bad… but that's besides the point. I've kind of stopped writing in this way, this format, whatever you want to call it. Instead I kind of just write down my thoughts and whatever I feel. I want the people who read my work to be able to relate to it. Think ‘hey i totally get where they're coming from!’ So in order to do that, i'm going to start taking the streams of conscience i write and heavily water them down. Some may seem like poems so are just thoughts or stories.

You can come here anytime! You can read my work, message me, if you ever need to vent you can even do that here! I want everyone to feel welcome and appreciated. Because, well, you are.

If you are reading this you have no idea how grateful I am that you have found me/come here. I hope you stick around! Thank you for all the kind comments you have given and any constructive criticism! I appreciate you all so much and thank you!

<3

Does he hate me?  
Are they mad at me?  
What have I done?  
What have I done to make you mad?  
What can I do to fix it?  
Can I fix it?  
Will you let me?  
Can I help?  
You want to be left alone?  
You don't want to be around me?  
They do hate me.  
What do I do?  
How can I fix this?  
Please don't leave.  
Please don't.  
Don't go.  
Let me make it up to you.  
Somehow.  
Please?  
Talk to me.  
Please?  
Don't leave me like this.  
Please don't.  
I know I'm annoying.  
I know.  
I can't help it.  
Oh.  
You don't want me around.  
Do you not care?  
Do you not see how this hurts me?  
Do you not see my pain?

There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

Some days, I avoid the mirror,
as if its glass might speak.
As if it might tell me all the things
I already whisper to myself.

I tug at fabric, shift my stance,
try to fit into spaces
that never seem meant for me.
Like I’m always too much, or not enough.

I trace the outlines of who I wish I was,
sketching softness into strength,
erasing the parts I’ve learned to hide,
as if beauty is something I have to earn.

But I am not a mistake,
not a problem to be solved.
I am a story still being written,
a masterpiece still in progress.