The inconvenienced patron always arrived late.
They always had a glass to fill, and not a minute to wait.
Their emotions were like landmines, and their problems all your own.
The inconvenienced patron was always picking a bone.
They tell you how they were mistreated, how others are so unkind.
Then rant and rave about how how if they’d had just been patient with them everything would be fine.
The inconvenienced patron never seemed to give a second glance
To the glazed over patrons not holding their breath
For an ounce of positivity nor some selfless grace. No.
The inconvenienced patron made them blue in the face.
"Just live off the grid, reconnect with nature" the heart says. Grasping onto threads of hope on the otherwise tattered garment that is my morale.
As if that were possible.
How to find freedom of any kind without freedom of the mind?
And how am I to pursue anything that brings me joy when the associated risk is so terrifying?
There is no security in this world.
Though I feel so joyless I'm losing the point of persisting. When it all seems so much easier to lay down and die.
Weekends are not long enough.
I stumbled upon your linkedin yesterday,
and saw you frozen in time.
Read through an articulate and proud bio, and wished that that was still you embodied.
Before all the pieces crumbled apart.
I didn't realize that it would haunt me.
What a feeling it is, to know you're alive, while mourning as if you're gone.
I would give you all my hope if it had a chance of saving you.
Spent countless days waiting and wishing for someone to come save me.
Until I stood up and realized the whole reason I am here is to save myself.
Though every joy that could be enhanced, and every misery that could be diluted.
Thoughts of escape dance like ballerinas in my mind.
Fluid in motion and undeniably enticing
I swoon for them - hypnotized.
They are really sirens seducing me, and pulling me toward oblivion.
I'm a moth to the flame.
Seeking a comfort zone that was never comfortable to begin with.
To inflict a suffering I do not deserve, yet so desperately long for at times.
This WAS a better poem before the bad gateway error. Edits inbound when the spirit is right.
Remember, remember the 5th of November, and remember the point of the plot.
That blind obedience and fear of others is what spoiled the ***.
This is referencing V for Vendetta which is a graphic novel/ movie that takes place in 2020. It tells a story of sickness that killed a lot of people and lead people into a fear driven frenzy that resulted in a fascist government that controlled free speech and art. Among other things.
Who knew it was a true story.
Addicted to darkness
like millennials and 90s nostalgia.
Undeniable comfort found in misery.
Leads me to drive the sulking deeper; enhanced pity.
Consumed by temptation,
vivid thoughts and shallow promises.
The predictability of my self destruction.
Euphoric memories of crimson scars,
that flirted with inevitability.
Slick and blurred is the line between thoughts and actions.
I'm walking a tightrope; history breathing down my neck.
I sadistically want to lose my footing,
and masochistically suffer the consequences.
Left to my own devices, if I could hold on to the secrets, my desires would be realities.