Brain Pain

“My brain hurts”

The average teenage anthem

In a pantheon of suicides and fried

Kids

Well

Swell, I suppose, when everyone

Is diagnosed, or “mayo-clinic said”-osed

So those with thoughts like bullets

Fully feel the real things unlike those

That just cry

More than often

And soften at the sound of a body falling

To the ground and say

Hey, same.

Well, it’s not

My brain hurts,

My thoughts pounding against a house

Of toothpicks, protesting the sound of

Tricks being played and my synapses

Being frayed

The leader of our “nation” stations

Political points, pointing to dissonance

And in some cases, repentance

But my toothpicks are snapped,

And my thoughts grapple with the

Artificial Snapple sugars coursing

Through my torso, making

My brain hurt,

Hearing about a woman shout

But no one help her

Kitty, I’m sorry

That tomorrow never came for you

And the self-diagnosed have the

Audacity to say

Hey, same.

My brain hurts,

But allow me to pour

Nicotine on it

to feed the monsters

The smoke billows from their

Nostrils, pillow pustules popping

Against it

Nevermind the rat poison

Or methane gas

That makes the black tar

In my lungs and all

Oh, nicotine’s not your flavor?

Try pot and fentanyl

My brain hurts

Daddy said not to be afraid

Of the boogeyman

But what happens when

He’s the leader of your nation?

I never thought I’d see such

A plantation of hatred

Like the cotton they wanted

To be grown again by waving

The greyback’s flag

Here, want another drag?

My brain hurts

Due to the missles,

To the lack of sanctions

To the factions of fascists

To the fast fasts that greedy

Take no part in

A common tale:

“My daddy up and left

Bereft, mommy worked

Double time but where

Was there time for me?

Oh, the streets? How do

They fit into this rhyme?

They gave me the time of day,

A gun to play, people to pay,

And a gang to say with:

Hey, same.”

My brain hurts

The millennial revolution revolting

an outdated constitution with

False information, stationed

By bad websites and stage fright

When the time comes for facts;

They make suicide pacts with

Crossed fingers.

Limber, the self-diagnosed seem

And deem the truly unstable

Unable to represent the whole

Population, the nation of the sick

The rich like to pretend don’t exist

“My brain hurts”,

The average teenage anthem

In a pantheon of suicides and fried

Kids

Well

Swell, I suppose, when everyone

Is diagnosed, or “mayo-clinic said”-osed

So those with thoughts like bullets

Fully feel the real things unlike those

That just cry

More than often

 

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