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.