I wrote this while in a kind of weird state of mind. It either turned out okay or it’s complete garbage. I haven’t made up my mind yet.
All I want in the world is whatever I want in the world.
I want the freedom and creativity to write rhymes
That don’t rhyme and stories without glory.
I want to wake up in the morning
And say that no one is boring
Because when people are boring
It’s like Elon Musk is boring
A hole in my head the size of a make-believe mountain
Named Mt. Snoring,
Where every Wednesday at 9:23 his sleep apnea machine breaks
And his snore wakes
A village and stirs an entire lake
Made of the most decadent pie
You’ve ever had in your life, one to
Die for. I want to wake up and smell the roses
With my nose’s
Holes instead of the twists and bends when I use three hoses.
I want my poetry to have such little consistency that the free-form
Feels like chloroform
On a most fragile mind.
Nothing makes sense, and something is wrong, but in the end, this poem is about Mt. Snoring and the people it’s boring. This isn’t a poem. It’s fucking garbage. It has no place here. The world is boring… and so is life.
Childhood whimsy is the messiah because when it doesn’t make sense, it’s fun. It’s stupid. It’s pointless. It’s everything that it’s meant to be.