Shuttle Bus 17: A Poetry Collection

Unsatisfied

Satisfaction is fear-mongering,

A Red Scare, a Bubonic

Manifestation that empties

The faucets of employment,

Forcing even the wildest

Of rationalists to run for the upper

Plains. Billboard tell you to

Chase For What You Seek,

Every Challenge Comes

With Overcoming a Specific Fear,

Live the life you have always aspired

To live, be the man you have

Dreamt about being,

Do what it is to exaggerate to become.

Just shapeshifting is something

Only a deity has the quality to achieve.

Overcoming simply by stating it,

Is something only demigods

Can force through turbulence

In a plastic straw.
Being the person you want to be,

Labelling it, and examining what it

Has that you do not and acting on it,

Is a whimsical fantasy, that

Sleepwalkers damaged in comatose

Only play forth when their three

Lives have been disbanded.
Simplicity is a fraction, an equation,

A hyperbole of its own right,

In the paradoxical fact that

Simplicity is both the most

Painstaking, yet painstakingly obvious

Thing to tackle first in an unsatisfied,

Uncomfortable frame of mind.
But yet how is it, that once the

Dazzling strobes, and the smoke machines,

And the vivacious dancing, and the liveliness

Of extraversion whimpers away past one o'clock,

I still feel so dangerously empty.

The party is so simple an aversion,

From complication, from fragility,

However, numbness is all I feel,

As if cruising FM stations are

Syncopating through my arteries,

Like a homebody is but a hollow

Circumference, a shell.
Dryness is a staple for my

Ambidextrous unhappiness,

Every floating rotation of buckling

Limbs with two swivel spheres,

Unravelling their geometric jaws remarking,

That sounds so sarcastic.

Are you even listening?

Are you feeling okay?

You sound uninterested.
Putting inflections into a producible

Wavelength for open-handed ears

Should be simple, yet it is in its own right,

One of the most devastatingly weary

Task when neurotic blue-collar cells

Are trying to pump away aimlessly

Just to encore circulation, respiration,

Blinking, accelerating,
We'll put this abiding for longing to rest,

Maybe another time, shushed away,

Tucked for temporary refuge.
In actuality, it is my exterior that is

Simulating what it is I represent.

I'm, unsatisfied.
I participate in bonfire movie nights,

As the tangoing kerosene arouses the timber,

Goosebumps polarizing, as the crackle
Woos on everlasting conversation,
The giggling, the making out, the hook ups
In the back of the minivan,
But yet I sit in the passenger seat, twisting

And curling at pieces of my scalp, biting my lip.

Unsatisfied.
I venture to do what it is I strive to achieve,

Yet, I feel,

Unsatisfied.
Satisfaction and simplicity easily manipulate

How we wake, how we lie down, and by doing

Everything you possibly can,

Satisfaction will still remain not scavenged,

A temple with no laying weight,
You'd think a passage of revelation would occur?

It never returns, it remains unopened,

With nothing laying inside.

Empty.

Unsatisfied.