On Angst and Annoyance and Being Unknown

it's impossible
or should be
this conflicting convergence of arrogance
and insecurity
(you know my pop-cult metaphor
cobain screaming toward the wall:
listen, listen
listen
stop looking
at me)
and they tell me that we're all the same
with pens and picks and paints
screaming rage against the walls
painting bliss onto the floors
spinning dreamy tales of longing
into webs to grasp your souls
and jesus christ we're all so
full of it
shouting at the world
that we are better
we are worthy
shut the fuck up, fools
and listen.

but the mirrors are the enemy
and the glasses are a farce
we are children-
i can't see you
so i'm gone.

and you are blind, dull, spinning
peasant hands outstretched and reaching
for a tiny shred of what you think
we have

and there's nothing we can give you
that you need

underneath
deep inside the thoughts you think you know
the things you think we share
the angst the pain the fear the agony
is truth

we are fucked up you are fucked up
we are damaged bruised alone
and the common thread
is neither of us
cares.