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an outdated constitution with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