Sometimes, when I'm awake in the dark,
I wonder if you comprehend it.
My tears that flow in streams down my face
and the vast emotions that trigger them,
and how James Dean could play and mumble
right into the depths of my soul
in "Rebel Without A Cause",
while you're still stuck in my quicksand after
months of adult preaching.
I wonder if you paid any profound attention
to the beautiful art that Dean crafted,
or drew any parallels to the person that I am
and the words etched on my canvas,
this freeverse bullshit that both exhilarate and nauseate me...
cast away by you, so freely without a single glance.
It's an odd paradox of sorts, how you claim to
see a million things in my face
but nothing in my art.
And when I realise that,
I feel like jumping off a building.
I'm not suicidal, unless triggered by other's insensitvity. James Dean is god.