Inappropriate Questions

To be honest,
I thought
some of my questions
were inappropriate for the masses:
why do humans
gotta be so fucking predictable?
You want, you get, you leave.
You want to go shopping cause you
have to be getting and going all the time
to buy and produce
and buy and produce
until you throw up
train tracks and gold.

And why can’t I eat my feelings?
Whats so wrong with that?
Why did I
have to explain myself
when I say no?
Why did my voice
get drowned out
by the fancy loud talkers
and their stupefied dope friends?
Why do people only start caring
when you end up in the hospital?
And why do I feel like I must
whisper about my madness,
feel ashamed and guilty
when I cant get out of bed?
What’s the point in hiding who we are
and when we are struggling?

Tantrums and spiders,
spitting out cold hearts
and scissors,
we walk on wood and glass,
we crave each other
and often chat with strangers
in coffee lines,
laugh together
with bright eyes smiling,
and fuck one another
with a knowing
that we die
and are left to the rain.

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