Learned Helplessness

4/24/24

Bring a party and rosé
Comb my hair straight.
Run a parade through
the town I was raised.
Play that song they played
before we let time fade.
Open your hand, show me
your palm. Count the tallies.
Count the scars behind my eyes.
Bleed a fucking masterpiece,
call it love, steal it,
then give it to a pair of tits.
You have love, I have
learned helplessness.

Don’t tell me I’m so self-serious,
when you can go home
to a parade — a handmade car
with tin-can’s trailing —
and nothing ever really escapes.
Don’t tell me I’ve done gone insane
when you got a someone
and I’ve got a flash of life
reelin’ a broken tape in my mind.
Take my head in your hand,
and count the scars.
Call the cops, or whoever you’ll need —
call your girlfriend. Tell her to
bleed a fucking masterpiece,
call it love, steal it,
punch it with your fist,
punch it down to a bloody pulp.
You have love, I have
learned helplessness.

Don’t tell me I’m so self-serious,
or do —
I’ve had enough of this.