The Pupil

Well, from the eye
I can see that I
Am still yet fully formed
Though adult in externality
Still a pupil to experiences
That have yet to unfold

Pupil, pupil, pupil, pupil
Which one to choose
The student or the eye
That which sees
Or that which can traverse the seas
But only under the tutelage
Of one who knows
One of the knowledge…

What the fuck is there in the eye
That it’s all that any pseudo-romantic
Can speak of

What’s there in the mind
Of a budding youngling
But that which will be molded
And tortured and mangled
And bemuddled?

I want to have one of those nights
One you see in a movie
A moment
One that all but fully encompasses
All that can be called art

But what is that?

The Pupil

The Blue Notebook

This fucking blue notebook
It has trapped
All that I should have said
It has entrapped
Me from all that I could have been
With its sickly binding
Bent like my spine
Spent like my wine

This notebook, it withholds so many words left unsaid
Within I’ve spewed forth my love
Put my lowest lows to bed
All these conversations, only ever written of

Oh no, it’s happening again
Waisting my time on this paper
Count me out, the lout
I’ve already proved, I’d just rape
Her of her right to a happy life
And my right to a beautiful wife
We’ve already proved, she’d just kill
My creativity in the most abrasively
Invasive mosaic of negativities

But I’ll go on in the real world
Time to close this tale of fantasy
Time to rebind this spine
This lonesome woeful spite
Of my love for you and me
Maybe when I wake up

I’ll cut these strings
Then I can be a real boy
Just like all of you
Talking through the day
Walking along my way
Not a care on display
With only these words to say:

I’m here to stay.

The Blue Notebook