Where is my Cleaning Frenzy???

Before I write
about petty-safe dreams,
I'd like to make a call out
to the greasy hair
that screams.
From every body ailment,
comes missing
such and such.
Maybe, or maybe not.
Homework creeps
into my spine
made of steel and blinks and winks,
shrinks
off of it on its own
failed appeal.
Do I write on both sides to save paper?
Or just become a paid leper
upon the cyst
the flaming truth upon my head.
Find with harmony,
not dread.
But itches
do not increase
the talent, and wanting
and snot collecting in clumps
inside my open nose holes.
This writing
seems so smooth,
I can't believe
I'm ruining it
in any way I choose.
It's just that a messy, filthy room
can't seem to clean itself,
without my help.
So I wallow
in and out of responsibility,
while writing down
my dreams to be.
And the pen
is nicely hard
to pull the strings of curtains,
as they unravel.
As the chapped ridges of my vessel
break off, and are rubbed raw,
then washed clean
with vapor salt.
Can I exalt the strenuous
fight within my fright
that will ignite
if I'm not too careful.
My time has come for me to make my life
seem great
and finish what has already been
started,
neglected,
put-off,
pushed away,
ignored,
not seen,
covered up,
and always still there
to sweep up
and carry
into a world of merry
undoing, and beginnings.
A breath in naught winnings.
To clean is my virtue,
is my path,
is my conscience.
To wean myself
off of procrastinator's cocktail,
and fling in some salt crystals
to heighten the senses
into thinking,
"My life best be served, so get up you lazy butt and do what you should do, until you do it, my gosh, we will never be through!"

The Source

World is crashing down inside of me,
eating away all the hope and truth until little seeds of failure creep into the spinal cords that connect to my drenched being,
trying my best,
but falling into the pit of shame.
Only a tiny bit can develop,
as the rest of me is shriveling,
shrinking into a dried out rain,
that was burnt, bashed, ashamed, stupidity and regret
will not stop to give me a break,
for all it does is keep on rising and rising until all that is left of me is two decapitated fingers,
swollen with frustration and suppressed anger.

Another line is heard, read, seen, and felt.
As little scruples of young children prodigies turn at my face, staring at my desolate pupils, as they laugh, and sneer at my normality,
my plainness, though I cover myself in color,
immerse myself into much more than their puny,
incompatible, narrow brains can handle.
I can hold much more than you, simple children, can tell.
I am rivers deep.
Swimming in the filth of this world only to dive, straight in.
While all the rest peer through the clear, durable wall of glass,
one mile thick.
Only I can step through the barrier, and speak, talk, communicate
with the nature, behind that indestructible glass.
Only me.
Only I can see what’s real, the truth, the future, the words speak to me, and jump into my pockets, just as whispers of wild animals and plants, living breathing articles of life that flourish without our existence.
But we cannot live without them.
Those children prodigies and I have something in common.
Only one, finite thing.
It is that they cannot explain where this power comes from,
where my writing comes from, my ideas, and soothsaying.
It just comes, through the voice of dreams.