but I don’t want to make sense

but I don’t want to make sense! 

I don’t want to curate components of me 

forcibly making a symphony 

so I don’t look crazy 

is that what they call branding? 

It’s SUFFOCATING 

I want to be the woman people wonder about 

Whom is far too much 

for anyone to even comprehend 

I want to be the woman with a breeze on her pussy 

Because she refuses to wear panties 

I want to be the girl who shamelessly admits she loves attention 

Instead of acting porous and reverent 

I want to be the lightening in a bottle 

reminding you everything is sacred 

I don’t want to follow logic, 

staying close behind it 

I want to tap logic on the shoulder 

And run and hide under cover 

Giggling while we play 

Eventually we become lovers 

I don’t want to make sense! 

I want sense to make me

chase me,

and yearn to comprehend me 

And leisure in the knowing it never can 

I don’t want to make sense 

I want to make statements 

I don’t want to make rent 

I want fucking experience 

I don’t want to put on a show 

I want to feel it, with absolutely no goal 

I want to look crazy, insane, hysterical

I want to be the one who doesn’t let that stop her

I Don’t Want To Make Sense

thats not what I was meant for

I want to be bloody, dirty, paradoxical, maniacal laughter

I want to be the girl people say “for a short while, I had her”

I want to live where your shame does

As I take its hands, and build it a fire

In Its Darkest Hour

I want to be rough, and fortressed

I want to make an absolute mess

And I also want cleanliness…

I want to contradict!

I want to say things, only when I mean it

I want to understand “it is and it isn’t”

like an ancient text

I think, deep down, humanity is just a colorful painting.

Some of the colors feel better to look at depending on where you are at in your journey.

But there isn’t anything here, that shouldn’t be.

There is pain and there is beauty

maybe

there both necessary

I want to be the woman who says scary things

and doesn’t go back later to delete

I don’t want to make sense

slice off my intelligence

in a slow death

in a journey towards acceptance.

I don’t want to make sense.

I’m exhausted. I’m weary.

Of trying to fit in.

It was never my thing.

-The Girl Was Never Crazy