My words don't flow quite as well as Keats' did,

I'm not as grotesque as Poe,

and I'll never be as witty as Wilde.

I just want to make a mark,

cause an earthquake with my mind.

Let my thoughts and words tumble over people like a tsunami.

My heart is heavy,

with hope,

and regret,

and dreams of strangers becoming lovers.

I want a friendship, like Lennie and George.

A family, like the Curtis boys.

An end to the hunger pains,

caused by my restless soul that always yearns for more.

I was born on a rainy day,

and my wild cries stole the rain right out of the sky.

I was taught to think for myself in a world full of nonbelievers,

and somehow I got sucked in.

Blending in, without truly becoming one.

I pray to an empty page,

filling it to the brim with nonsense words,

hoping this nonsense world will take it in.

Find some old-fashioned logic in this technological world.

Secretes don't make friends, but friends make secretes,

so I'll kill this page with my pen,

fill it the secret to the universe,

and hope it'll help me fit in.

And, you know what?

I'll kill your ears with my shouts,

and I just want to shout.

I hate everyone,

I hate everyone,

I hate everyone!

Must I carve it into my skin?

Crazy, but calm.

Shy, but too loud.

Everyone makes me into a waking math problem,

like two parallel lines, becoming one,

a natural disaster in this unnatural world.

Maybe I'll just write one more poem,

and make it a suicide of words.

Sentence myself to the electric chair,

use my tesla coil hair as conductor for the deadly sparks.