Not of This World

I cried when critics declared Batman v. Superman rotten.
My trinity had died, slain by a hydra I cannot reason with or fight.
I believed in justice. The world proved me wrong.
I’m always wrong. That’s life’s greatest lesson.
I couldn’t save animals or stop global warming
by passing out pamphlets and abstaining from meat.
Al Gore blames SUVs and eats food from factories painted green.
I couldn’t help the poor or myself by giving out charity.
The church told me I took the Gospel too literally,
Donald Trump commissions the saints to crack heads and crush pussy.

I once believed everyone was stupid except me,
but now I wonder if I’m the only one asleep.
I run in place unable to cross the horizon.
I speak but lack the volume to make anyone listen.
I’m naked, but nobody’s paying attention.
I revolt against the inevitable conclusion.
I never knew I never enjoyed life
until Christ led me astray. I could’ve joined
the circle-jerk, but I took a vow of celibacy when drunk
on the Spirit, when I believed life had meaning
outside a high school thirst for college coeds.

I was wrong again.

Now, I use my education to debate teenagers
on why Microsoft is evil and why Sony is great.
Maybe I’ll find a revelation on Reddit or Tumblr
that will shift the paradigm and solve the paradox.
I deserve to be loved. I’m smart, and I’m kind.
I am most of the time. But even if Gaga matched me,
even if she saw my reflection and not just my shadow,
she’d never be as beautiful awake as when I’m asleep.
She’d never be the pixie that I really need,
quenching my need for more dopamine.
Antidepressants numb the body and mind,
but not the heart. Nothing ever does.
There is no God, no justice, no logic in this world.
If there were, everybody would know
life only makes sense when you force it to.
Deconstruction is more real than what’s canon.
I was never deemed a hero for making the right choices.
I was never white or tall enough to spring from Eden.
I remained a stillborn seed, a weed begging for somebody
to water me. I’m a ghost in my own dream, waiting for somebody
to pinch me. Wake me up, or prove that I’m right about life.

Critique

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