Midnight Metapsychology.

I lay silently as the television hummed and spewed up
some awful humdrum opera with no music score.
I moved my hand slightly and switched the pained faces
for a flurry of black and white snow and a perfectly held
note of thunder, continuously rumbling like an omen.

For me? For me? What warning now?
A hurricane? A flood? A renewed cycle of blood?

No answer except a still whirring that churns the
thick air of February into a translucent cream for
the night cat that feasts on nightmarish
mice and rats and sparrows that weave their ginger-tasting
banners of feathers burning through my Mother's living room.

From the sofa I lay upon, I could see, hear, think
at last, at last. I left the curtains of false darkness open.
I wish not to please myself, I wish not to bastardise myself
so openly, so invitingly to the unsexing spirits that preys
on the prayers of the good. I have nothing to offer-

The too round moon of my face stared myopically at
the orange haze surrounding me. What profit
does my soul possess? The look of misery on my face
as the geometric waves of sickness hold me from mathematical
persuasion.

I think myself as a poetess - what a fool!
How many million volts must run through my brain to
make me see the light?
How many feet must I fall to feel darkness?
Why must I be so schizophrenic when I cannot decide
between the mere facts of life and my destiny?

I do not understand it. I do not understand myself.
I must have been mistaken at the hospital.
I am not my mother's baby. I cannot be.
Perhaps I was dropped on my head or I was
meant for the long line of mercury injecting
poison into my foetal heart.

I was an accident, I am quite sure.
I am the appendix of human nature.
I am a pencil line mistake.

The view outside was a blur of dying yellow,
a thousand gaseous crayons, each a caustic
orange. The fog is seeping through my window
and I fall into a drowsy coma.

Oh carcinogen, oh hallucinogen!
Sweet oasis of toxic waste!

Make the earth burn and minds go blank.
Make me unearthly, make me unreal.

I want my image to show
my inner agony
and my perpetual
loneliness.

Maybe then, they will see.
Maybe then someone will understand
and destroy me before
I am just another
kid called Columbine
or nine-eleven.

If the choppyness is intentional, kudos.
if not, try working on cutting down on that in the future

The imagery you used was just... wow. This is one of those poems which really got to me; in all it's tragic elegance and raw, putrid emotion - especially in
'I was
meant for the long line of mercury injecting
poison into my foetal heart'.
^That part made my stomach retract several inches into my body.

At times it did seem a little choppy, which is something you could work on if you chose to re-draft it at any time.

And your opening lines were gorgeous, at least, in my opinion.

Although, I did think that
'Make the earth burn and minds go blank.
Make me unearthly, make me unreal'
was a little too simple for the poem itself, but that could work either against it or in its favour.

I'm not that crazy about some of it. I mean, the imagery is wonderful, but it's too... pop-culture for my taste. This is just how I feel, so feel free to not listen to me.

But anyway, I just feel that if a poem is going to convey a message the best, it would be better to use things that are unrelated to pop-culture. I mean, we grew up in a pre and post- 9/11 and Columbine world... but others down the line didn't.

Eventually the terror of these events will be lost to a new generation, and these strong feelings you convey in this poem will be lost as well.

Other than that, I really love it, but like I said, it's just my feelings- you don't have to listen.