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Poem

An apple falls on an energetic man. 
Sparks.
Are we all made of stars or just anxious flames?
Crayons for teeth and googly eyes in our nostrils-
There are more monsters in our sketch pads than the closet.
What is fear if not a rejection of our own lust?
I paint anagrams on sidewalks 
And spray paint the library with lamb's blood.
What morbid bulls**t.
My music is like screaming hymns,
The backbone of poetry.
Can't write without the cacophony. 
Can't spell either,
Just know the word I want to use.
Is it sacrilegious  to be an English major who can't spell?
There are eyes in the tunnel,
Glittering like fireflies.
Haven't seen one of those since I moved to the city.
Are my thoughts louder 
Or am I subconsciously thinking in a yell
To make up for the cars honking?
Never seen so many d**n streetlights.
Maybe my poetry is fractured
Because it's so f*****g noisy here.
Haven't felt any privacy in two weeks,
Too paranoid.
The artwork in the A&H building makes me jealous.
And intellectually hungry.
Where are all the children? 
Need to color with a toddler to feel human again.
Feels like everyone is blurring by 
And I'm stuck at a red light
Pulsing pulsing pulsing 
There's more blood in me than sane thought processes
And I think I'm allergic to stupid c***-hungry teenage boys.
The attention is flattering 
But I'm oh-so-sick of hiding in my dorm room
Staring at the toothpaste stain on my gray sheets.

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