It occurs to me that I am America.: 02.06

corny words i write when i should be sleeping. oh yeah. rhyme. heh

i listened to all the thinkers get shot,
I swore i was blind so hard i believed,
i believed so hard it came true,
and now i can't see,

i wrote more words than i knew,
i took vocabulary when i was younger,
all the teachers praised my spelling,
all the teachers in the world and not one knew the ending,

i grew up not to sleep,
man i grew up before i could sleep,
man i grew up and i never sleep,
if i'm an insomniac would you tell me?
if i'm dead would you dream me?

i took philosophy when i turned 19,
the teacher asked how i knew i was really me,
sometimes, dude, you just have to believe,
sometimes dude, believing ain't nothing you see.

Happy Birthday Kurt

immortal in death,
thats reserved my dear friend,
You're either gonna burn or fade away,
you said it, not me,
you're a godamned american dream,

you're not quite that rockstar who killed himself,
no one has quite forgotten nirvana,
as much as they've tried to make us,
i know you were into the beatles,
but you had to be punk as fuck.

happy birthday.
i hope peace can find you.

hey skyscraper, jet airplane chaser

i don't have the lungs much to chase anymore,?
i'd appreciate it if you'd stay here,
i don't really know what to do with myself,
i don't really know what to do,
i don't have the lungs much to chase anymore,
so i'd appreciate it if you'd get the hell away,
who the hell is perfection anyways.

not nessecarily stoned, but beautiful

sleep.
i can't.
i can't sleep,
i can spend my money on fancy drugs,
but then i can't write,

sleep.
i need to.
i need to sleep,
i can get sick, i already am sick,
but i can write,

write.
i can.
i can write.
i can write until i'm sick in the head,
who said i wasn't?

people

people is high,
drunk off their ass and high as kites,
man we love to fly,
high, people is high,

people are down,
dropping the bombs got the people down,
man we love to drop bombs,
down, people are down,

people can't care,
people are high,
people are sad,
people are dyin',
people aren't asking any good questions,
people aren't really paying attention,
people will never learn their lesson,

people are all of us.

this was my first entry. from another journal.

America this poem is for Ginsberg

hands writhe beneath the press,
they're losing fingers,
and our thousand newspapers print nothing but falsehoods,
all the news that fits,
Associated press, who are you associated with?
is it with our president,
Do you say what he wants you to say?

america is war,
america is guns,
who is america?
i am not america,
ginsberg was america,
i am not canada,
who am i? am i connecticut? vermont? california?
am i anyone?

was he right?
am i a pawn in their game?
surely i am thinking too hard,
If my head explodes who cleans up the pieces?
my room mate and i sleep in the same room,
he sleeps with boys, i with girls.
that is beautiful,
america, why don't you think he is beautiful?
america, why can't he marry who he pleases?
these rights are self evident america,
even your founding father said,
"we hold these rights to be self evident"

my teacher came into class with his fly down,
i don't think he knew.
most of the class probably lost respect for him,
i think he's a good teacher,
a good teacher could come in naked,
if he had a point to prove,
i don't think there was a point.
i think he's a good teacher.

why am i.
who are you to tell me why i am?
it wasn't a question.
i am a question.
why am i.
is not a question.
the punctuation is all wrong.

who are we?
with our patriot act,
computers, hah i am writing on a computer,
what does that mean?

when are we leaving?
when are we getting there?

where ever i am.
that's where i am gonna be.

are you listening,
does anyone ever listen?
you can talk,
i hear you talk,
i don't really listen to you talk i don't think,
i think i listen to only what i want to hear,
but if i can't listen,
can i be heard?

clocks

i hate to break your heart,
but i am not coming to bohemia,
not with you, not with anyone,

i'm staying here.
where the toilet sounds like an airplane,
and wakes me up at 3:20 in the morning,
i'm staying here.
where the food plays with my intestines,
and makes me want to die,

i hate to break your heart,
but there is no bohemia,
not here, not anywhere,

i'm going nowhere,
But i'm going nowhere awfully slowly,
and i can see the clock,

its fast moving.