pink emerson radio [a collection piece]

some flames refuse to die

for as far back as i can remember, i have had the following phrase beaten into my skull "you are crazy!" promptly followed by hysterical laughter, tears, or absolute shock, which seems to cause said person to only look on waiting to see what might happen next. i feel that, for me, creative release is the very breath of the human soul. out of nowhere, i am pulled to a project and find myself scouting out the supplies needed for what is about to emerge. i can only think to describe it as a transformation of some kind. no matter the scale in my mind, i know that as soon as it is set free, something in me will change dramatically. i become unstoppable until it is complete, or until i lose interest.

i am a perpetual disappointment.



my attention span is nearly baseless, which has caused hundreds of these projects to go unfinished throughout my life. i lose interest midway through the timeline and am already carefully tracking the next failed soul assignment.

i have this urge to understand everything, every person. i dissect myself to the point of ruin, and later, analyze why i am constantly over analyzing everything. with or without physical awakedness (a conscious body) my mind is alive and free. my body is simply housing a genius spirit. if only my genius self could copulate with my rebellious self and form a neutral habitat. trying to instill responsibility or obligation in myself is comparable to trying to teach a bird not to fly. the excuse seems as immature as the refusal for infiltration, but nonetheless, it is who i am. allowing someone to impose their thoughts and habits over my own has never fared well. sheer curiosity forces me to listen to every possible perspective in a conversational argument, but i refuse to let anyone tell me what i'm going to believe in. freedom of choice is oxygen to me and as far as i'm concerned, conforming and prejudice are the real "mental illness" that the world faces. those who are recognized as mad are also the same people who have brought light into my darkness. great artists mirror the world for us. their selfless gifts feed our souls. scraping out that kind of creativity takes its toll, whole patches of skin may come off with a single poem.

what did the sign say in the deepest of depths? what words can be shouted when you can't possibly go any lower? when your mind has been boiling and now it's knocked down to a simmer. you're a fucking rice cooker. you've played every game in the book and you've got everyone else's cards memorized.

auto pilot for a curious mind could be your demise.

you punch in like a time-clock. you smoke your cigarette, drink your coffee, look like you're busy for an hour or two, masturbate in the bathroom and eat a bagel. shampoo. rinse. repeat. the clock could be the most frustrating thing to ever be built. time is an unfair opponent. time always has the first and last laugh. time is enough to drive you mad. and the face of a clock, it never really changes. it's a god damn warp zone. every time i look at a clock, i either try to move the hands with my mind or i am throwing it on the ground and stomping the hell out of it for laughing at me. unwavering structure everywhere i look.
  

would the world really end if no one ever knew what time it was?

still in all, i walk when i'm not running. hiding behind the lyrics of my lullaby. my coaxing mechanism. my cure all. when i am gone, instead of a heart you will simply find my words, unspoken. all of the words you should have heard years and years ago. subtle poison that spreads until your song is done. beyond betrayed, my heart has frayed and worn so thin, i swear it must only be a rhythmic journal. you lived your life on a permanent, dead beat vacation. time crosses paths where reminders turn to crimson. paranoia and scratches. i beg for defeat and a restless slumber. wait until the ghost clears and the song has been sung.