Angry poet is angry. NaPo 15, 16, 17

I am not going to fail. I don't care if I have to write crappy, short poems. This is going to happen. <.< (I've already written over 30 poems, but I want to POST 30 poems. Some of mine are unpostable, so I must continue.) I am going to kick NaPoWriMo's ass for being in April.

Angry poems!

___________________________________

Anywhere but Here


It's been a year since I've felt
the napalm time bombs under my writhing
skin, brain screeching with the same
neurotic clumsiness, tripping over my
feet with every step, thinking the floor
is falling out from underneath -

I've got moths in my brain, chewing up my
idea of home, burning holes into the photos
of everything genuine - everything is
phony,

but silence sits on my skin like shower mist,
sitting in the bathtub drained empty, my will
to fight drained empty - I need to
move

catch a plane to somewhere hot,
or cold
or sunny
or rainy
or
just anywhere but here

because the buzzing is too loud here
I don't know where to land here, there's no
pond here, I need to

wing away, fly south

but I've got heavy bones
and clipped wings, though
my skin screams for everything
away from this.
_____________________________________

Growth
My ribs don't fit right anymore, they've
shrunk and fall from my spine, pick-up sticks, my spinal
chords sound like a dirge for another me, left
in the leaves; how many skins
do I have to shed before one fits my
shifting bones?

___________________________________

Every moment is one
of preparation, contemplation,
like its as simple as crossing
the street, opening that door,
one step followed by more, a border
crossed into anonymity -

I'm just so bored.

I want to drink life from puddles
so close to death I can live, I can't
live here, where I'm drowning in
silicon - that sidewalk
across the street
isn't so far away. California
isn't so far away, or New Mexico, or
anywhere.

It's just a matter of getting off the curb.

I won't need to hear a single name to
remind me of where I've been - each
sounds like a lie, my name
could be Sylvia Plath, but without the
oven; this is not about
dying - its about living down a path
to nowhere, like a dog running from
animal control, I'm losing
control, ready to plunge into the chaos
of myself, snip the puppet strings, sever the
heart chords, smash the alignment on pavement
like that Hendrix guy -

that crash is music

and there is no music here, no voices
singing like they used to, just letters,
numbers, English class

27. a, 28. g,

36. n
37. e
38. e
39. d

40. t
41. r
42. u
43. t
44. h

I can't stand this monotony, its ticking in my
brain, run run run run run run run
run run run run
run run run run run
run run run RUN run run run RUN
RUN RUN run RUN

step.

That's the hardest part.