Soul a patchwork of scabs and scars nicks and scratches, bleeding in silence, in front of your apathy.
Beaten black and blue by your red white and blue dream that's really hollow and cold.
Just get over it
Get over being tired of living someone else's dreams?
That's a stupid thing to want to be! Be a doctor instead, you're smart.
Because holding someone's beating heart in my hands or curing someone of cancer is your choice for me to make.
I'm smart, but that's for you to decide what I do with it.
I'd rather hold your spirit and soul, imagination and thoughts. Your intangibles, because money can't buy you that. It can't buy you my power to wonder.
Nothing I do makes sense to you, but then again, why should it? You never made sense to me. Dinners spent in my head instead, floating away in the glass of wine, the dinner I can't afford with the people I don't understand.
Why should I be what you want me to be? You don't understand what goes on in my 'smart' brain.
Dinner
How object-like you are. I can't understand your words so your mannerisms are all I know. You're saying something disapproving because your lips are pursed and you're sucking on your words like a child on a lollipop.
How's school?
You're only asking because it's formality. That's the first question of the night, always from the tag along I don't know. You're a part of that machine that churns out some random blob of a person. You're also Zimbabwean, and somebody's someone somewhere 'back home' knows you and by that you're a de facto something. A zero of a person that I can't bother to remember. Your suit speaks louder than you do. You're a something that's corporate. Something with a desk that leaves you starved for a personality. I've yet to learn your name, but you seem to know mine mostly because people talk, but I don't. I text and your Blackberry says you don't.
Do you want some creamed spinach? Pass the creamed spinach! Here's some shrimp
My you're shocked I'm here. Appropriately dressed and in a decent mood. My usually bunt way of speech has been turned into pleasant banter. I've ordered a glass of wine and you're hoping it doesn't make me less than mellow. How dare I order wine though, even if I'm 28! But as not to make a fuss, you shall too! You probably should be more important to me, because you're my aunt, but most times you act like an absent mother, one who offers the least bit of advice that's usually something I tried two years ago and didn't work. You view my hardships as me being scatterbrained not under-funded. You seem like you want me to like you, but I don't even think I want to like you. You're too boring. I can't talk about my fetish-gear wearing boss or about being half naked covered in paint.
Hi! How have you been?! Too bad we didn't get to talk during dinner.
You're another somebody's someone somewhere, a homunculus personality of bland questions about Africa. I have no clue who's someone you are, but who cares? I'll never meet them anyways.
Sitting here I feel so alone. Like I need an intervention, let the art world come get me, take me to treatment and spit me out later with a story. "I'm finally designing and making art of my own. My canvases sell for thousands of dollars. Didn't you see my 3-D fashion show? We're expanding it into a stage play.
No comments:
Post a Comment