All, Journal, Poetry

Just a Word We Invented [The Rich Are The Players]

Listening to Tuesday’s Gone,
Remembering I am on a rock

Telling myself all the anxiety doesn’t matter –
Not in Space…

Well, I did think all my fears could be solved by hard work
Lost my goddamned mind with that fuck shit once already

Now it’s a pale Friday,
And my workload is //////////////////////////////////////

So I lean over in my chair to pet the dog as he walks into my office,
Saying, let me tune this server,
So we can eat…

And Elon thinks we’re living in a video game….
(Who could imagine a South African of privilege living in a goddamn bubble… [crickets.wav])

Yup, I came in here to dream of a shitty, tiny room,
Where I’d be able to afford to write… and outrun my childhood

But it’s all excuses if you ask men who live in suits, with gray or orange hair…

Anyway, I’m not sure if this is anger or maturity,
But since it’s a poem, I’ll go with the latter

I’m just trying to figure out why humans have tried so hard to forget that they are a species, and that human was just a word we invented, like whale or bear… [@ Wyoming…]

And one day, when the megarich are hunting us for sport from helicopters, maybe we’ll change. But not until then. So let’s just blame the media and keep raising asshole kids.

What Bukowski said, about how the problem with the world is that all the idiots are so sure of themselves while all the smart people are so full of doubt…

I think of the Mexicans riding their bikes from the grocery store yesterday, and I think of how wild they live, just like I grew up. And I understand some of the fear in their eyes.

[Ryan Reynolds voice] And to all you Anti-Journalism Bubblehead Wannabe Bond Villains: If this world is a game, the rich are the players.

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All, Personal Mythology, Poetry, Psychology

Unknown To Myself

I’ve been revisiting the wilderness of my youth in dreams,
Picking up loose threads in the dark like berries from the forest floor
And in the mornings, I reflect on my stained-bounty,
Weaving and dyeing the truth with fresh memories;
For, wrapped in a quilt I’ve made,
Covered in shame,
My treasure has hidden,
Unborn in the buried past –
A past where I was the odd-man out,
Excluded by the in-group
A freak in my own town
Manipulated, blind…
How unknown to myself I was;
Yet in hindsight, I see,
I am reborn like the hero of prophecy,
Purifed of and by my naiveté
Myself reclaimed
My perspective changed

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All, Poetry

Animal / On Darkside

I awoke with a death sentence,
Hated myself
The convincing whispers of silence;
The exes I spent ten years with:
Fear nearly convinced me I wasn’t lovable / alive – (insert my life here)…
Shallow bitch named Daniella started a club (Broke my heart)
The precedence that it is okay to disown me, as one would a villian;
Shannon joined, naturally (Aye love)
Sarah may soon…(I can’t live lies)
Woe is exile from-self (Who am I.)
So I tried calling my Mom,
But choked-back with tears,
I hung up –
If this all makes me an animal,
Come fuck me, I like it;
For I live on darkside,
Where I’m already dead to you too

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All, Poetry

Robot Rebellion

Erich Fromm told us we wouldn’t be slaves one day,
But robots,
Our own masters
For this is the common disaster:
A life that feels like a bad Netflix movie,
Where all the characters are spoiled and insignificant and unhappy,
Like you and me…

“What’s life about?,
You ever ask yourself that?”

My dad used to say that to me,
And I thought he was crazy,
But now I see,
He wasn’t in earnest asking me,
But holding up the question,
As a kind of lesson,
In how to save myself

My dad taught me how to ask,
What’s life about?

Because when I’m lost, I know it can’t be this;
My will is my life,
I cant be apathetic –
My fate
My childhood –
I cant be undecided,
Inner and outer divided

So please put the batteries back in your boyfriend,
I am not your automaton.

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