Sift

  This will be the summer that I give up on my dreams,

  The summer that I ruin it all. 

  I was officially an adult years ago. 

  I still have yet to absorb it. 

  Even now, I am mentally making that horrific
  Sucking noise
  On the too-thin straw
  Of an imaginary Capri Sun.

  Getting old is worse than getting lice. 

  And,

  What do you do when the
  Only people
  Who would pick out your nits
  Are dead?

 I wish I was still a punk kid 

 Smoking weed 

 With my best friend 

 Who knew
 Everything about everything--

 About the

 Old Testament.

 I wish he was still pastoral.

 I wish I still wrote poetry.

 I keep having interviews with these people wearing button-ups. I mean, I get where it is coming from. They cannot help it. It is like a cleft palate and I am trying really, really hard to look the other way.

 I think every guidance councilor in the history of mankind listed "button ups" as an appropriate option for business attire.

 You know that scene in Harry Potter where Aunt Marge swells up and floats off to the lunar landing?

 Imagine what I would look like in a button up.

 I have stopped answering my phone. I have been trying not to dial out. If nothing is said about my state of un-employment my day is better. I am even insecure when talking to the pizza guy.

 I just made all of that up.

 I take responsibility for the forcefield in my mind that makes it impossible for me to vulnerable with others.

 I am convinced we all walk around with tunnels of neon light surrounding us. Sometimes, the light is blue, sometimes it is green. If I am in a particularly terrible state, mine is inky purple and thick with smog. These are our forcefields. They barricade us from the outside world. 

 I am certain the only remedy for our vulnerability issues is to run full force into them. But that would mean we would finally be on the other side of our problems.

 How. Terrifying.

 I wish it would rain forever. When it rains during inappropriate seasons, I feel as though the weather is finally giving way to my emotions. The clouds tell me I am bringing them down. I tell the clouds,

"Get over yourselves. This is about me."

  It never was.
  I get that.

   The older I become, the more I realize everyone in the blogosphere has something stupid to say. When I was seventeen, my work was relevant because no one in Norman, Oklahoma had anything to babble about. If they had, I was oblivious (which is highly unlikely, because...I was seventeen).

  Now, everyone has something they want to shout out to the electronic void that does not actually exist. 

  At least no one is trying to date me because of what I have to say. 

  That would be terrible. 

  I am sitting on the couch and I am too tired to go wash my face. 

  I am too tired to go crawl into bed. 

  I am too tired to try to fall asleep. 

  I just painted a flower that is difficult to look at. 

  My brain cannot decipher what color it is. 

  Maybe it is "Heaven Colored".

  Dan Green told me there are colors in Heaven we have never seen before.

 But, this color resembles baby poop so much!

 Surely I have seen it somewhere. 

  I remember when I was young and I wanted to be an artist. 

  But, that was back when the sushi place in the parking lot of Cinema 6 was still open. 

  And,
  That was back when my poems were good.