If you are vanilla, embrace your lame; all

that bean frenched in between; you may

change your name, and you might adopt

my prefix, but your aftertaste defines my

stain–your mask-of-the-day, is my angst

untamed–your suffix, will always remain.

 

Embrace your lame; Respect the facts of

diluted pain, from my callused palm from

my pink, red face; celebrate that they say

you’re okay; relish the purities intrinsic to

your lame, bland, boring, ass ways; Just,

 

never forget: you thought we weren’t, but

we were: we’re in front of you anyday; we

never had the chance to get jaded; this is

something we have always known–this is

all we know–So go fuck your paper cone.

 

To what depths really might my malts go;

How much must be spilt for you to know;

The napkins needed, Is greater than what

trees could grow; you might throw up, for

all I know, if you stir this soul; I’d let it go.

 

You never tasted Rocky Road; You never

went behind a parlor’s closed doors; You

never knew this truth in my myth, so how

may you comprehend the kicks you miss,

The implicit bliss, that is in a life as this; it

Is, under your head, you would not know.