Introvert Agenda

They are all on page 19

And I’m still only on page number two.

Distracted, thinking about dinosaurs and depression, frozen rivers and falling skies in fifty shade of blue-

Thinking of how arbitrarily things like love and drugs turn us into slaves

And how if the world were to end tomorrow who would I try to save,

Wondering if I had enough blood to turn an entire garden into mud.

How long would it take to freeze to death?

To see the end of the loneliest depths of space,

Cold and dark and sparkling.

These thoughts are often harmless, but obsessive,

Pervasive, compressing, depressing-

Reminding me of what it was like growing up under the impression

That you were with some sort of deficit not to mention how

You were forced to watch others benefit

Off of something you were taught to have been infected with-

It’s some crazy shit to think you need to prove your necessity

By buying drug prescriptions meant to refill your efficiency-

That isn’t normal-

We should all agree those who think of death are not necessarily sick-

That quiet isn’t an illness we need to scrub away at

With wiry brushes dipped in Prozac

And sugar pills meant to “trick” us back to normal

When we were normal to begin with, right off the bat, if you will.

For lack of better words those shy kids just wanted to dance and sing with,

Lie and sin with,

Those they we taught to feel inferior to.

Those people who wore smiles like badges

And had voices that wafted through the skies like victory songs-

The symphonies that quiet hearts were rejected from

The patient humming of our pulse against the banging of their drums.

And when your voice would sputter,

And when your eyes would water

For the slightest of reasons,

You were told that you were broken.

You feel scratches against your stomach when being pulled out of your shell,

Completely overlooking how blessed we are

To be capable of carrying the world on our shoulders

And not breaking at all.

How blessed we are to be capable of carrying the world on our shoulders

And not breaking at all…

Why does the pill on my tongue make that statement taste false?

But death still tastes real and fear still smells true.

What again exactly is this cure actually supposed to do?

I didn’t mind being shy until it made me sick

In the eyes of others who

Apparently know so much more about quiet

Than I do