every people's day

People. I used to deny I was special. It made me feel so covert. Like I was Emptying myself  to play a role, Like Brando. To be honest, I think I might  have been a great actor. People though, they are beautiful on their own or from a distance. The garden of tapping headless chickens though. They make me feel I am slowly Becoming  more and more unique. But I feel so lethargic in it  as though I am a marionette  made up of body parts, all from varying ages in my part. And my adult head is hung up by a hook, like something out  of Hellraiser or Lovecraft and I am directed to and from locations. But at night I am here at this screen. I am born exceptional enough, still, even within a population  of millions of ramblers and complainers and sighs  and blamers, I am here. As you age  if your time does not gain valuation over currencies of the world you’re jostled through, then take a bow. Get off the stage. I have something new to destroy my chest and spawn a rip off H.R. Giger alien. And it knows your name  is correlated to your  economic base and position. It knows you are either a cheap, or a high-end action figure,  or low-end sculpture lover It knows I am an original sin, an anomaly. A fall or throw back Monday to Friday. Some pastiche over the holidays for Measure.  And you aren’t forgetting clever. People piss me off in large groups. but become so interesting  when left to themselves just long enough to go a little cracked. You drown out the main soundtrack, and make me dance a little less shifty. But even you can’t handle my twitch. I lifted myself through a roof once in a dream. Inside the attic-like sky they occupied were a dozen friends and lovers and I had yet to meet. People are like The Dark Crystal  I guess; Skeksis are as  necessary as Mystics. Not that I ever considered myself Gelfling, more like The Never Ending  Story, with its devouring “Nothing” on my back, that rides the mechanical bullishness of my pride into snow banks of blow and dirty hobo with sketchy looks and metal pipes all like; “You don’t know where I’ve been Lou!  You don’t know where I’ve been!” No people here.  Just the stroboscopic pentameter of a million movie references, balled up in a tight circumference of freckled flesh set fire to on a hundred binges, Hoping to burn out the light that burns your eyes. Hoping to burn out the lights Before they fade. or at least break a few bulbs  before restless ghosts take us.