everytime i well up with real emotion. i think this is it. this is the moment when i'm going to use my trauma to cry on cue. i've reduced crying to an exercise. don't know if it's even a healthy one. it's to keep your emotions trimmed, your sanity in the pink of health. look good and flushed, natural apple-bitten blush. i think this is art. art is not real life. not even an imitation. everything about this is fake. don't even want to compare my tears to crocodiles. how can i grab onto the raw, sincere outpouring of my humanity and clench and twist and bend and mould it into something so artificial and so manmade. how can you be human and not human at the same time. how can you have humanity and create the manmade. how can the real human man make fake manmade. how have i ruined my own feelings. the thing that keeps me human. as if being human is being the pinnacle of creation. i did not want to admit that because chief is man among creation but man is so depraved and disgusting that we belong in the lowest rungs of below-hell.
YOU ARE READING
i'll never be a poet
Poetryand here's the pretentious proof an ongoing anthology of the poetry of nobodi.
