Miss Lonelyhearts Attends a Party Alone
Enter;
all eyes on me,
like the laughing ghosts
and hidden cameras that watch me
masturbate and not be clean
and look at strangers longingly.
Not one face I know
(well, REALLY know) but
all knowledge is incomplete anyway.
Even I’m a mystery among mysteries,
but maybe that’s not so bad
since meeting and learning about people
is like reading, but more intense
and intimate,
like reading the universe’s mind.
Yes, oh god, it’s all so clear to me now:
how everything is music and art
that writes and rewrites itself
forever everywhere
in every clumsy skeleton,
with drunken highs and metaphor
and dialogue and climaxes.
I suppose I can leave whenever I want,
but I know this will never leave me:
memory, anxiety,
possibility;
as long as I’m alive,
parties rage inside my head.
Why was I ever so afraid to go?
I’ve been working on prose for the last 4 months, so I’m a little rusty with poetry but I hope you enjoyed it! I wrote this poem today, which is my fourth so far for National Poetry Month! Wish me luck moving forward (because I’m going to need it, desperately.)
Hang in there, scribes; I’m sure you have it in you, and the world needs you to share it with us! =]
Love always,
your Mister
Lonely Hearts Chapel 