Writing A teetering between my two emerging styles in one poem.

[Mitch]

[size=1] This was so fun to write.[/size]

[b]Ain't no feeling better than your natures[/b]
I shuffle to school like a marionette
my mind twirlin like a spiraling mess
and when i sit in my desk, my eyes observant,
i feel no sense of anything nor accomplishment.

I open my books that are abound,
and i read over many a mundane bore
talking bout the twenties and its age of jazz,
or geometrical garble, or latin language,
and i eat it like an obese man.

Each day my mind grows and expands,
each day my brain feels squeezed down,
each day my mind has a stroke and feels
a certain need to vomit, and a certain need to spill.
And i do it all like an obese man.

Sitting in my desk, my chest is gaunt,
but sitting in my mind i am not,
and i feel quite prime, like a pig,
and i feel like a hog.

Been fed what's wrong,
and as it chokes down my nose,
and goes deep in me where it goes,
it is fat, and quite energyless,
and quite holding.
And i eat it like an obese man.

The garbage man comes round each day,
and his eyes are a burning haze,
and he looks me in, and rings my bells,
comes up to me and tells,
"Time to throw 'way what you don't need,"
and i give him buckets full,
and i even give him some flowers.

When all is done, he looks to me,
and he bids me farewell, and goes tucking off
and i'm left with what i lost,
and my brain is still too full.

My head's a crisis, call nine-one-one,
and i can just hear the phone a-ringing,
and can hear some dull voice answering,
and i want to tell them i'm a pig,
the most fat swine you've ever did.
Heart attacks attack me down.
Ain't ever going to break that much down.

My head's at war, and the lovers are all biting nails,
and as i sit in my desk, i just exhale,
and i breathe some kind of romantic hope,
and i die as my alliances noose themselves on rope,
the stuff that climbs them too far down,
that stuff ain't never the end.
They still are at war, and it's the same as before
and before, there's no guns, just beating gore.

Blood smeared round memories,
that thing that died alone,
and still crawls in my mind,
and the casualties are doing just fine,
they're dying like heroes in my mind.
The lovers just look to the skullies,
the dead things on the other side
and they just swoon.
Dead can't die like that,
because they're already dead.
Hopeless romantics think they can
still win nonetheless.

And all along as i'm at war,
my teachers are in no-man's land
talkin bout their own wars,
their sweet misery.

One teacher looks too young to be so old,
and another he looks like he's einstein,
and still another looks like he's a bear.
They're all fighters fair.
But fallen as much as fighting.

They're all caught in the twilight zone,
the place where nothin seems to belong,
and they are just making their dues,
teachin kids bout things that make no sense.
Things that they been taught to bench.

School days are like skins,
and i wear mine in
and it's gettin too worn out.
And my brain's starting to show
and soon i'll be done and give up
but still end up getting right along.

My brain's a broken mess,
and i don't need mops to regress,
and i don't need helping hands,
i make right along alone.
I build my towers to the sky,
and i topple my dominoes like flies,
dead falling flies that ain't got eyes.
And i think i'm blind, and i think i'm dyin
but it's such sweet refute that i can't die.
So i'll build nothing from nothing
to cry.

If you have built castles in the sky,
they are allusions to your death,
and hapless demise.
Breathe a second from your eyes,
and see the reality that is by and by.
You can build bases to your castles,
but they aren't so grand
so just keep your castles a-floatin
and full of empty cubicles.
Ain't no other way,
dreams are too critical
they aren't bricks hard enough,
they're soft and so they need to be demeaning.
Reality's got more breathing than that,
and more hard heart to have.

School's like a home for the sick,
and i got the hiccups and i'm figthing my infection.
Gotta gain all i can before i get detention,
and i'm sent to a job in a box.
I'll be the most possum fox,
so crafty but so lost,
and so wild.

Some kids at school, they're as dumb as rocks,
they talk like they was shot, or broken somehow,
and their minds are just exclamation points that shout.
Some kids at school, they're as smart as they come,
and they've got lots of commas and things to the side to say,
but the teachers just keep goin on with their talks,
never let anyone that wants to talk talk.
Some kids sleep like a sloth,
and teachers just go over to them and go off,
and point fun at sleep and its laziness.
Work does that to you, that black bruise,
nothin beautiful bout the way the world works,
and nothin neat bout working with a smile.

My dad tells me i need a job,
and that i am the biggest slob.
And i feel like it too as i wheeze and shuffle,
and go about my daily muddle.

And i do everything like an obese man,
the slowest way of the slow.
And i do everything the last second,
or as a last thought, never pushing myself much.
I guess that is what intellect feels like.
Feels like a broken record bein played morose,
and spinnin like it's broke and sad.

I don't want to learn no more,
and i don't want to know much anyways,
only makes me sad the way the world is.
And my mind screams this to me everyday,
and its wars battle on the field insane.
And i'm getting ready to call nine-one-one
My brain's in crisis, and i'm shaking the shakes,
and i feel like i'm just going to break.

As my mind gets to know more,
it's more jaded and hurt.
And i'm getting bitter as sure,
and i'm getting a taste of reality.
Soon it will all escape me, for nothin makes sense,
and everything feels like incessance,
and it just hammers me with nails
that prick my skin into my brain.

And here at school i go about my ways,
and i talk to a girl here and there,
maybe flirt where it comes around,
and i know that what i'm learning doesn't mean much to me,
when the simplicity is what makes the most sense,
and not being encumbered with all these chains is the best.
What you don't know is festering, but most sheltering.

And maybe i'll get shelter from the storm,
for the clouds are gettin grayer day by day,
like a heavy fist that's gonna beat me down.
The blackness just flitters around,
wanting to create something more.
And my heart is in the blackness, tarred and feathered,
trying to learn to fly.

And the tar is seeping in my skin,
and burns again and again.
And i feel so fat, and so empty,
and so morbidly obese.
My heart burns in my chest,
and my brain won't give me a rest.

What matters the most is what i've done since i was born
and that's doing what makes sense, and what makes me glad.
Ain't nothing in happiness but pain, and it stings like hell.
This IV in my arm just won't stop pumping me full,
the morpine's gettin old, and i'm developing a tendency,
gonna break free.

My natures feed me most of my meat,
and in school i just feel prime.
I want to roast on a grill,
and be cooked to a black till i can't look back,
and i want to eat my own skin, and know what it is that makes me tick,
but i ain't got a clock, and my heart resists.

I look at girls like they're going out of style,
or maybe they'll just become extinct like dodo birds.
I've noticed many a lady fine and fair,
and i've only just gotten to stare, and not feel much else,
and just go about my way.
And i guess it's best that way, for i feel more self-sufficent than anything else,
but deep inside my heart, i'm being taped all sticky,
and i'm starting to stick to some fates.
And that type of tape feels funny,
and it feels fresh all the same.

I wonder if some girls look my way,
or if they are revulsed by what they see,
or maybe they just don't take a liking to one like me.
Lust's a funny man, and he's got a funny bone,
and he itches you like you're just unknown,
and everything feels like his own.
And itches are meant to be itched as they twitch,
and they're meant to be abated in a full release.
Ain't no better feeling than doing your natures.

School starves me, like a buoyant fish,
and i rise above, and i have gills and lungs,
and all of them need nourishing.
And most of the time they feel unused,
and dead as a bone,
but other times they feel alive,
and they beat in me like burning fire.

When you bend one way, and this way,
you feel something crack, and you know it's something you never had,
and you resist everything but this temptation,
and you realize you can resist everything but temptation.

School's only fun because of temptation, and all the things you find so fine there,
and it just gives you life to know they are there, and makes sitting bearable,
and makes your mind just a crazed behemoth that thinks of the wildest things.
And you get more obese each day, and more wicked cruel and jaded,
and only the simplest things that give the easiest pleasure feel needed,
and you let your mind have them eaten whole.

I come to school each day, and i rack a sigh,
and i wonder why, and sometimes i feel like dyin,
but being dead's as much as livin alive.
For i feel the same thing all the time.

My mind's a crisis,
calling nine-one-one,
and calling an SOS.
Gotta go on and fight my fight,
gotta empty my messes to make more.
Gotta live with something to fight for.

And when i see something fine and fair,
and when i feel like that i just stare,
and when my mind feels broken,
it fixes itself by being more broken than ever.

Ain't no feeling better than doing your natures.
And i come to school a marionette each day,
and a twirl round my way.
Life ain't nothin but a bust,
we must do what we must.
It fixes itself by being more broken than ever.

And i'm always achin, and my brain's always bakin,
and smoke's coming out of me in plumes,
and things are flying in there like swarms.
I'm the portly swine, and i feel empty outside,
and inside i feel too full.

Release never comes till you let go of all you feel binds you,
and till you tell yourself nothing really matters no more.
Being obese makes you fat and sore,
but these britches hold so much more.
And i'll vomit all over the floor, and eat just like i have before,
and my mind'll be just a broken whore.

[Mimmsicle]

[COLOR=firebrick]I normally don't comment on your work, for I feel that I don't have the vocabulary to do your work justice. But know that I read them all and that they strike something unexplainable inside me.

This one had a really good flow, it was easy to read it without getting sidetracked.
It felt like several poems merged into one big symphony of orchestral delight...
Reading it was like being taken on a journey. Not ripping you up from your roots and dragging you along.
No, it was more like something caught the corner of your eye and enticed you to follow....

Lovely, Mitch. Just like yourself : )

- Mimmi[/COLOR]