I Rarely Like What Is

I shall complain as always. I shall scream and shout then break things (mostly my own). Only my own. I shall fight but really just fall and injure myself. I shall laugh but still be very angry. Still this will not remove the thing that I believe should not be. I shall wander and run. I shall sing loudly with beautiful rock n rollers. I shall sing sweetly with humble church ladies. I shall make songs about the love of dead things. This will not move the thing I feel should not be. I shall write on machines. I shall scribble on paper. Make lists in journals. Confess to the ones I love. Judge the ones who bore me. The thing lives on. I shall confuse myself. Numb myself and then remember everything. I shall feel dizzy and drink lots of water. I shall eat three very healthy square meals a day. Yet the thing lives on. I shall stab at my own heart. I shall sit in a quiet room alone in the dark. I shall see my elders and join clubs. I shall look to people who march and those who have many children. I shall visit the saints and the sinners. After all of this the thing will persist. I shall go to rich men's cities and dine and dance. I shall go among the poor and pity and laugh. I shall live among the middle class. But the thing oh the thing which should not be is still here inside of me. I shall speak to the dead and shun all the living. I shall win all my dreams and think about quitting. I shall go out late at night and stand beneath the stars. I shall walk at the first hint of day. I shall see you all the sneaky conformists and the gay. Still the thing lives on each and every day. 

Gunshots shall rain as I type. I shall make music so gentle in the dead of night. But I can not be convinced of any less than this. I do not like it here. I want out in out in. I am not your friend. I never understood you. You have studied me before. I have become a metaphor for your life. I have gained nothing. Not even the smallest insight. I shall weep but I am not really sad. I shall beat the thoughts right out of my head. Answer all the stupid questions put to me. This...it just should not be. I shall reveal it all and say nothing. The reality is plain to see. I don't belong in this emerald city. I never wanted it. It has always wanted me. This is the place the vampires feed. And I kill things with words. Last of the dying poets. Still alive today. To witness all that is dressed up and boring. To filter out the pain (yours and mine). I would become a cynic but I never liked becoming things. So I'll stay this, a bitter writer staining things. Maybe it will all be so clear one day. As for now all I can see. Is the thing I know that should not be

I am Josalisa and this is a RiOt.