Metalogue (1st Draft)

Metalogue

I guess I should write another poem.

Did you really think I needed another meta?

My life feels fake enough as it is.

I keep trying to write myself something I can believe in, but I'm

Not a playwright, just a poet, I'm not so good at round

Characters my parts are all bits and clichés:

The rogue, the romantic, the spazcase. 

The intellectual, the workaholic, the saint.

Even my tongue feels like fragments and my brain forgets how to work

In one language not постаянный, I'm kind of feeling like

I'm losing it I want to lose it so I can maybe find a different story.

There's no such thing as an unwritten life. 

My hands are so inkstained and I've been asking the

Author for a break, I'm not sure I like this play,

Everything a game, and even my mind is a stage

For the parts that I play: 

The hubris, the victim, the hero, the plague.

I've pulled so many rabbits out of this hat,

There's no magic left. 

Asking another girl if she'll run away with me,

Just to know if somebody really would think that about me.

And if you say yes, you obviously don't understand the irony or complexity.

You obviously don't understand that this is all just a

Game. 

I tried my best to go off-roading as soon as I got my career

card and my first life tile.  Skipped the obligatory pink statuary

In the passenger seat and I've made my own way.

All of my friends' lives look like atari 2D.  Even the ones I

Wist for.  They all seem...too easy.

Glass is incredibly malleable.  But if you really want to get

This kind of facet-age, you gotta eventually break,

The more pieces, the more surface area, to run your fingers over

A mile wide and a half-inch deep

I cannot feel because I feel everything.

I don't know if people understand that self-immolation, self-forgetfulness,

Feeling completely lost or immersed is the deepest longing inside of me

To step outside the mirrors and the out-of-body narration for a few moments and

Get lost in the moment.

I make mistakes so I can feel a little more surface area

I put my face in a book i don't like my face

It's seems like a little avatar for everyone else's crazy.

An icon of an idea that I've been steadily undermining and erasing.

And you still believe in me, didn't you notice the image was meant to be

Self-effacing. 

I don't actually talk like this.  No one would understand me,

ESL world.  Have my words atrophied? 

I remember when I learned to write letters, line upon line, cursive, but it

Seemed no one could read what I was writing.

I remember reading books instead of reading my life.

The tea leaves are green, yes the leaves were green.

Everything is stationaery, a stop waiting, a fancy script with some flowers.

I've started to stop seeing the point in flirting, started to see end games.

Everywhere end games, expiration dates, RIP, temporary

I'm home but I don't have any soulmates.

I'm home but I have to buy a visa every six months that says I have

The right to exist in this version of me.

There are any number of reasons they could deport me.

Today we saw a car crash the skidmark squealing like slow motion

As a small Toyota skidded all the way across the intersection to it's smashed

Hood destiny.  I almost stepped out into traffic twice, rubber-necking,

But Zhenya saved me.   She takes my breath away but even lust

And friendship seem distant and mundane. 

I'm not sure if my launch into orbit is scary or comforts me.

I'm liable to do anything, 

Chasing the wind cuz it helps me breathe.

It reminds me of a something, a feeling.

My Odyssey feels like a dick and jane,

My opus feels like a top 40 refrain

Identity is a con.

Story is a con.

Trajectory is for physicists.

I'm quite skeptical for being so skeptical of skeptics.

I do believe in a purpose for being but my card tricks

All seem the same, and even if I pick out yours,

It means I'm just good at manipulating. 

I should sleep more.

I can think more clearly.

I've got nothing left but a bunch of sticks strung together on

A page. 

i i i.

srsly?  

I hate selfies.