Those who are dead are not dead, / they’re just living in my head.
And since I fell for that spell, / I am living there as well.
Time is so short / and I’m sure, / there must be something more. —Coldplay

Mohawk College sweatshirt, I don’t know where that is,
but she was cute, and she said that I was funny.
That’s irrelevant. I know. It always is, but that doesn’t
stop the experiences from ringing true, however false.
Haven’t you gotten tired of reading and/or writing this? I mean, we get it.
You’re an outcast (he said sarcastically). You’re surrounded by a bunch of friends who
think that you’re good company, and isn’t that what you’ve always wanted out of this?
Isn’t that an epiphany you have every day when some
one laughs at what you say, and it’s not for pity’s sake?
I think they’ve made a mistake. I’ve only got like fifteen minutes of
real material before it’s too late, and they realize that I’m a fake.
You’re only saying that because you can’t act on what it’ll lead into.
Isn’t it true, though? Words drip from my mouth like honey, unbeknownst
to a mind becoming a beehive, of misplaced feelings, and unwanted thoughts.
Now inverse those, and I think you’ll have the answer you’ve always sought.
I wish I hadn’t said that, or had all those late night chats.
They gave [me] the wrong one, and I’m a man of many impressions.
Don’t you see that you’re the sandcastle and the wave?
You’re built up too high, and you’re in too deep, so when it
all comes crashing down, we know exactly where you’ll be,
and truth be told, we don’t want you here every single week.
Minivan in front of me was playing “Beauty and the Beast,” so I
Disney tailgated until the highway ramp separated me from the screen,
ironically just as Gaston led a raid on my castle. I still don’t get what he was after.
Was he really jealous of a monster, like, he thought I had real chances?
Did he not know I wasn’t actually up to any of their standards?
I mean, I don’t make advances the same way that others do.
I let feelings gestate—unaware and alone—until they go away on their own.
People ask me why I feel the need to waste so much text, and
I tell them it’s better than [them] having to waste any breath, so
in the end, aren’t we both happy that we’re not as connected?
People say that when I read-speak, I’m trying too hard to be 37,
but I’ve got my own spin on my word combination; signed 10[6]11.
Damn. After that above alphabetical, you should probably take a
sabbatical. Semicolon, it’s the cleverest thing that you ever wrote.