Lice

Pulsating waves on this head of mine. Will they ripple until the end of time? Or will it fade out like the green in lime, For me to recover, and usurp the shine In the limelight of my own throne, And make use of materials, to go back home.

But what if home is shifting Or only sustained through gifting, So that foundations can never be made? Or if so, only with woven braids That require time but fall apart quick.

Could I relieve myself from the vices I have? But where to start, let me ask the Internet. And so I remain bound to this weighted calf.

And still, they keep seizing control As if prewritten on destiny’s scroll. When I think different, it places a toll And discourages me, taints my soul.

Preconditioning to the vice Is simply a way of breeding more lice. So that when raised it becomes A greater evil, that never succumbs, Only halted by death Like the old on their last breath, Fighting for something When something is nothing.

When is the time right for me to bail? Is it when I’m down and about to fail? Or is it when I’m out and drowned in hail, As it keeps falling on my hot-tempered head. Hard to settle, unless under blankets, in bed.

I’m sorry, but I’ve got to vent. I keep suspecting that my time is bent. Nothing flows, as streams become dents, With the pipe reflecting the effort I sent.

A little boy walking through a lonely alley His parents giving his brother fame. He would roam his world freely, Then hear his father’s roar when home he came. The adult saying the son is to blame, But the child claims his sphere is too lame. The audience thinks the father’s a shame But I’m a youth in it, don’t mark my name. Anyways, like a goldfish he remained aloof. Different character, but under the same roof.

I’m alone with no interest, Still can’t pay off the mistress With all her curves, pushing her buttons And moving sticks for joy, trying to be a mutton, A dead goat, or even somewhat of a martyr But that means losing the controller, Something I won’t barter. Unless it malfunctions at the junction rails To derail trains of thought, trying to cover trails Only to backfire, and on backs it fires back And seizes me again before I could cease to lack The strength of brass knuckles to crack scalps, Killing lice brutally, it’s a no brainer Until the brothel manager tells me “You’ve slain her.”

Once upon a time there was a boy who died Still hasn’t come back, the savior is slacking. Living in two worlds, in a bubble of air Small and large, the lice is the charge For a crime unknown, supposedly in himself But he sees no demon himself, pleading for help When his waves don’t pop the bubble. So dealing with devils who deal ordeals Doesn’t feel like the level of real he reels. Goes nowhere, but pain he still collects So that holes become whole, train redirects Slowly to the thought of home, hair and lice Forcing me to ask, ”how do I end my vice? If my vice is nothing, how does it cease to exist?” My new hypothesis: I need to persist.

Cars run over brown puddles and stain clothes So they look to clean it off with a water hose From the fire truck, since they can call 911. Hotline for those who are Gods of the Sun Whenever they have arguments with Set, Laughing at their double-wristed silver bracelet. In the mirror, the light blinds the mean, While they’re out here, trying to be clean. Men with arms, watch for the time, Then inflict harm, when paid their dime. Escape swiftly before making a scene, Hands dirty, but the suit stays clean. Anomalies of the muddy masses Give back to the roots self-made molasses That only adds viscosity to the mud While the farmer builds a pen to stop the flood Because if the pigs do find a way to move, They will eat those who stepped on hooves. Flood comes, white farmers run and panic Until they light cigars and control the manic By giving pairs of bracelets coated in gold Silver keeps them hot, gold keeps them cold With similar hearts, in pursuit of ice But the degree of it doesn’t freeze lice, Only making mice amidst men of the 10 percent, Using whiskers to clean the gold chains hell sent.

Stepped outside, saw a bird fly by Was told once “they weren’t made of metal.” Ignoring this, I looked for something to drink, Fell into a bliss before I could start to think.

Monsters jumping through the screens, Present information as we consent to the scene. We give our green for things that make eyes red And green, like Iago when his friend was dead. We see our dreams which seem so close Then sow our jeans with seams of hopes.

Room with white tiles, flooded, Toilet dismembered, pipes bent, Some kid in the middle, hands on his face With no trace of the crying, Taking showers for hours, finding warmth But sacrificing will, for comfort in excess. And this story hasn’t yet shown success. Prefers to be with mannequins that don’t exist And a handful of kinfolk holding him Mainly the former, dealing with a virtual place Where feelings don’t matter, except dopamine, The only bought feeling, they sought happiness But kaleidoscopes are afraid to show the picture, Helpless as they resort to fragmented pleasures Which in turn makes them fragmented.

Receiving a letter for poor grades in school In a class where he can’t be advanced As his former shade, obstructed By the enlightened feeling of a wise teen, And so a perspective on school turned For the better, but got worse as he chased “cool” With an overload to accompany the big brains Who have a nature for being the scribe, Hardly the king, that’s not for most And not for me, as I lost time Then sacrificed some school to secure mine, Which was used to deal with mimes, Mannequins, dolls, ghosts, And anything that rhymes.

Where are the dreams Where are the seams That sow this nightmare With my own hair Brought by the lice Also known as: Vice Plural, I’m playing with the plague But that description itself is vague And I won’t describe it, too lazy, Out of energy, legs cramped, whatever.

Pest control by scratching with my hands, Oversized nails to make it work. Blood spills over on the sands, Packing up only makes it worse. Packing up, leaving through the shore But helicopters never stop to rescue. So when wooden boards show up north, They’ll put fake tears in their face, too.

Give me claws to tear my lice As nothing I have can suffice. Laziness from infected mice Bothers me when I eat rice, Bothers me oddly only to entice Then bite it, always succumbing to the vice.

Where is the train to hope? Where there is no pain to cope, But only the pain of rope Climbing, with no ladder to grope, Whips are the same as soap, Without the fame of a pope, Replacing the dame of dope Trying to maintain the scope Only to fall out of the boat As waves combat the float The days come back for most But only after the last toast Nostalgia a show the past hosts Then comes the last roast Or even the knife of the enemy Like me against the inner me.

Don’t let it in, Lice is not a phase. I’ll take it off To return in seven days, Eating away my hair As if I had any, As if I didn’t care, Which I do.

Fuck you, lice. Fuck you, lice. Fuck you, lice. Fuck you, lice. Fuck you, lice. Fuck you, lice. Fuck you, laziness. Fuck you, procrastination. Fuck you, lack of interest. Fuck you, myself.

I killed some lice yesterday But not all the eggs. Relieved the itch, Knowing it’ll come back Like a bitch. Can’t forget the time spent Or wasted, talking, writing Of the solution to this. My view is covered in mist, Spilling out doesn’t seem to help. Crying out dozens of tears myself, Trying hard to muffle it with smiles. Reserved nature helps me cover up, Reserved nature helped me never once.

Can I be saved? Yes. This could be merely a passage Or even a punishment, somewhat. If the message is short, I’ve yet to find it. I scratch my head, Looking at the wall. Stones loose, about to fall, But I can’t put a finger on the problem. I’ll knock it over, and say it doesn’t matter, And the same for everything behind the wall.

The new generation has arrived And my body hasn’t writhed, Hasn’t moved, hasn’t danced, I never chose to be entranced And I’m still not, who knows About the path I chose.

Hanging from the threads. The puppeteer is here, Holding the cross, And commanding from behind the curtain.

Kill the puppeteer, Kill the puppeteer, Cut the strings, He cut the wings. Kill him while you can, Don't let him seize control. Appeasement leads to death, Death of the soul. Time imposes its toll, Drags me to the bottom, The bottom of my perception, The depths cannot be seen. A plea for rope is suicide. A plea for rope is enough, To drag one to the top, Even if it's tied to a tree.

Frustration, frustration, In love with lice, want to forget the world, Lock her away, and I’ll be there to rescue, A carrot on a stick, headed to the ditch, Ropes tight around the wrist, can’t ditch, Especially when the master acts like a bitch, Stockholm syndrome falling on me, My whole system failing on me, If it ever did exist, I’m in a bliss, Falling into an abyss, can’t miss this When that’s all it ever built up to. Hopefully I stick it through, gorilla glue. Woefully I kill it too, guerrilla grew.

Falling, falling, no picks to use, And still the loose cliff is bound to fall. If I fall into stranger arms, Then I might as well have a ball, Since nothing good interests me now. The wall of loose rocks Hide a path to comfort, The one offered by the friendly king, The considerate boss, the trusted enemy, But I’ll keep it standing, for as long as I can, I’ll be understanding, though lost I am, Lost in the sphere I thought I knew Before the tears clogged up the view Because of nothing, in the literal sense.

Kick down the wall, Kick down the wall, Kick down the wall, And still my feet are immovable.

To end the reign of lice, I must overthrow it. A simple concept, but which I have obscured, Accepting defeat due to threats or intimidation, With the latter being of my own creation.

So, to remove the shackles And return to my former self, I will do what I must And not restrict myself.

Unfortunately, it has failed. Another project, I have bailed, So why not bail on myself? Nevermind, I’ll recover with help If I look for it first. Could that quench my thirst For purpose and such? Or is it too much? Am I to be a mindless drone, Or, in reality, one who is sane But must keep to his own, As rationale would make him insane?

How may I project my dread When the vice is aimed at my head? No, it is on my head, climbing through the ears Then messing with the retina to trigger scenes That tear my heart, blood spills out And melts my skin, my frosted skin, As the cold breaks down from what’s within: The warm hermit hiding under the skin. The hermit was once in the watchtower But the view made him retreat To his cave, losing power, Handing it over to the next seat. The new ruler brought a coldness Which eventually froze the system, Naturally, numbing the feeling of anything, Both painful and joyous. This was mainly a side effect From viewing the world differently. What used to be an optimistic sight, Was mixed with reasoning and critiques on life, Resulting in the lack of meaning, Or so I think.

The lice sinks further. I hope time will cure me. My only obstacle is nothing, Yet I think I need nothing, To finally be at rest.

New visions are brought, But the shut eyes choose not to open In fear of incomprehension. The body will open, but the mind rejects And vice-versa, the same mindset of a reject In a fit body, able to work But still resting in the cradle.

The lice making me reconstruct life, When the tools and I are broken. The result is an anxious bridge Where fear of crossing is potent. The path to the other side, Breaks down alongside the chapel Which has once built the bridge, Before the mind strays from the castle And into the abyss, the true bliss, As the world crumbles when the mind falters.

A scenario: A young adult with obligations In which he does not see any value For himself. So he rejects the obligations, As his mind would say is “right.” This rejection only causes more obligations, When all he needs is enough time For the obligation to reach the line, At which it would be dead. Yet it would be short-lived, Eventually returning to that dreaded world In only two months.

Fire breaks, and it burns. Fire shakes all concerns On the stake, suffering slowly Left to die, supposedly for the better.

Darkness taints the visor. Do I need another visor? How about no. They only add vice. Are they the evil, Or is it the inversion in myself? Am I just feeble Yet reluctant to ask for help? I guess all the above Since my vision is dirty. Where do I buy the wipes? "They don't exist."

I say, “give me the choice to live,” And so I do, with the reaper’s bid. So that anything done alive is merely A distraction from death, which clearly I fear for its restrictions. The question: Does one prepare for death Or take in every breath? Does one restrict himself To then be satisfied with nothing? The contradiction lays in the absence Of any functioning brain to process this When we vanish.

To be in someone’s thoughts while dead Can be considered immortal. Yet there is the dependence upon others To remember, which ends when they die.

Why should one be stressed, When the end relieves the means? Worrying about if Johnny will kill Joe, Or if Jake and Jill will marry When they were all born from lead? Or, more importantly, of choosing a leader Which is simply stagnant, and not a leader? Why, why, why care, When someday darkness eternally reigns?

If death is simply “nothing,” Then it becomes anything According to the view of the individual. One who treats it as a gate to another world, Will only see death as such, For when he dies, he cannot prove it otherwise. One sees it as a limitation, Which definitely it is, at least at the core, Then it will be so. However, if death is not “nothing,” Then the belief is either shattered or reformed.

D*****sion: It’s not always about the pain, Not about the losses, but sometimes lack of gain Or lack of meaning that keeps us sane, So for me, this floods my brain. And I ask, “is there another train?” But this moving car can’t stop or wait, So my options are: jump and die with pain Or stay in vain, leading to the same gate With the boring scythes and shit.

It was subtle, very hard to tell, My brain just dropped a coin in the well, Oh well, might as well blame something real, Something concrete, and made of steel. That’ll explain the pain, right? That’ll help me sleep at night. That’ll keep the bottle tight, Holding the scroll of my hidden fright.

Denouncing it up front, I’ll see how it goes. Scapegoating failed at removing the woes, Since pebble walls are bound to fall, And serious shit is hard to call, When I live trying to cover it up, When I’m reserved, trying to stay tucked, And setting up walls to stop the truck That only crashes into trains of thoughts To leave me fucked.

If the pain isn’t expressed, how can one diagnose, When I think I’m better off since I don’t cough? Why will apathy reign in me the most? Is the immune system not that tough? Yes, because it’s unseen, with no vaccines.

D*****sion is supposed to lead to s****de. Right? Maybe not, if it’s a lesser form, That forms in the minds of the most informed But strikes only the ones less in form, Which results in the red pen touching the form.

Sinking in the well, throw the rope, Thinking might as well stall and cope, Knowing very well it’s a faulty hope, But at least it’s not bad, right? As long as I can still hold sight, But only for a moment, my head is a cocktail Waiting to ignite. My head is a cock’s tail When the head is out of sight.

Gambling on myself, waiting for the crash, Holding back the bomb that blows me into ash. If I drink water, then I might avert the clash, But unfortunately it doesn’t taste as good as gas.

The rabbit hole doesn’t have beds, Let me search for more. The tragic toll was only half said, Let me shut the door.

Filling up the hole with whipped cream So that I can open it up again, Tearing up my hope and dream. Doesn’t matter, I’ll stay blind ‘til the end.

Throwing the rope over the wall, With the pickaxe tied at the end. Still, the ceiling doesn’t open at all, Even though it’s made of air.

I could just step out into the sun, I could just go out and have some fun, And still I don't, And still I don't. I could just try to climb a tree, I could just fly inside the sea, And still I don't, And still I don't. I could just help out a fallen one, I could just pull out a loaded gun, And still I don't, And still I don't. I could just cry here silently, I could just lie here, eternally, And still I don't, And still I don't.

The debt collector is leaving soon He’ll ride off around noon, He says. Now I can look towards the future, Frolicking in green pastures Or lying low, down to earth, Slaying crows with a pound of turf. No tolls to keep me down, This time it would be my choice, Free to write of calmer tides Only for a period As they rise in the other half. But by then, home’s foundation is solid And above the maximum level, Only flooding if the sea is mad, Or truly when my emotion is sad. This new home hopefully may last This blue tone woefully stay cast To bring me, to me, after every creek, Every trial, never losing myself Unless it’s for my body to eventually return.