Every synapse fires
towards inevitable decay
(statistically speaking, you're already dead)
Yet here you are, meat puppet,
Still performing your dance

Your frontal lobe knows better
Than to trust in tomorrow
But some primitive lizard part
Keeps reaching for the light
Like a moth with a death wish

I've seen enough failed hearts
To know they're just muscle
But even bad pumps
Keep pushing blood
Until they don't

The numbers don't lie
Neither does the pain
Both tell us we're losing
But something stupid inside
Won't stop fighting

Maybe that's the real pathology:
Hope as chronic condition
No cure required

and so it came to pass that many
have tried to date me but all have failed
for I am not a simple swipe right
but rather an ancient riddle wrapped
in a modern enigma stuffed inside
a takeout container of destiny

the prophecy speaks of one
who shall master the art
of properly loading the dishwasher
according to the scrolls of my preference
(the ancient texts are very specific
about which way the spoons should face)

dating apps bow before my profile
like pilgrims at a digital shrine
while algorithms whisper legends
of the one whose bio reads
"must be able to decode my silence
and interpret my spotify playlists"

those who came bearing red flags
found them transformed to dust
for my standards are not forged
in mortal foundries but tempered
in the fires of therapy sessions
and grandmother's disapproving sighs

and so I wait atop my tower
of unfinished books and coffee mugs
while suitors attempt to solve
the paradox of my existence
(the answer is 42 but also
none of the above, simultaneously)

I'm like a bug in the bathroom when you flick on the lightswitch at 3 a.m.
frozen in the fluorescent truth of what I really am
scuttling between porcelain moments trying to make sense
of how the shadows keep rearranging themselves into faces I used to know
while the mirror multiplies my mistakes into infinity
and every dripping faucet is keeping time with my heartbeat
counting down to sunrise when I'll pretend none of this happened
but right now in this moment I'm just anatomy and regret
spinning circles on cold tile wondering
if anyone else is awake in this city
watching their reflection fragment into somebody else's memories
while the morning grows like mold in the corners of consciousness

I have a way with the ladies they say but the ladies are actually origami cranes folding themselves into question marks whenever I enter a room while the ceiling fan spins detective novels into the air and I'm pretty sure my coffee mug is judging me for being the kind of person who thinks he has a way with the ladies which is really just another way of saying I collect shadows in mason jars and pretend they're meaningful conversations the truth is the ladies have a way with reality that I'll never understand because they exist in dimensions where my noir fantasy dissolves like sugar cubes in rain and maybe that's the point maybe I'm just a metaphor having an existential crisis in a poem that thinks it's cleverer than it actually is while somewhere a real detective is solving real mysteries but here I am collecting punctuation marks like alibis

Through the lens, I watch myself
watching him watching himself
scrub the infinite white bowls
in Shibuya Station's basement level.

"This is cinema," whispers the me
that isn't me, as his blue-gloved hands
move like butoh dancers across
the ceramic galaxy of toilets.

Frame 2, 394:
His reflection multiplies in every surface,
twelve versions of duty
in a public restroom mirror
while salarymen pretend
he's made of negative space.

"Keep rolling," says the director
who might be my conscience
or just another synapse firing
in the dark theater of my skull.

The camera catches him practicing
English on lunch break, rehearsing
"The weather is nice today"
to an audience of ****** cakes
while I practice watching him
practice being watched.

Sometimes the film grain blurs
and I can't tell if I'm the viewer
or the viewed or the viewfinder
documenting this infinite loop
of seeing and being seen
in the fluorescent purgatory
of other people's waste.

Frame 10, 957:
He bows to the toilet
like it's a small god
of porcelain and pipes,
and I bow to the screen
that contains him
containing himself.

Today I leveraged my core competencies
by successfully utilizing the office microwave
without burning my lunch
(#grateful #blessed #thoughtleader)

My strategic pivot from
desk-facing-wall to desk-facing-window
has resulted in a 47% increase
in pretending to be productive
while watching pigeons mate.

Excited to announce
that my morning anxiety attack
has been optimized
for maximum efficiency:
now hyperventilating
in only 2.3 minutes
(a personal best).

Thrilled to share that my
"crying in bathroom stall" initiative
has attracted key stakeholders
from Accounting and HR,
creating synergistic opportunities
for collaborative breakdown sessions.

Looking forward to disrupting
the traditional paradigm
of actually doing work
by innovative implementation
of staring at spreadsheets
while thinking about death.

#OpenToOpportunities #HumbledAndHonored
#ThrivingThroughChaos #AlwaysGrinding
#ThoughtLeadershipIsMyPassion

Posted 1h ago

morning and I make your coffee twice today once
from that hollow space where I need you to need
me where my hands shake with the weight of
tomorrow's promises where every clink of spoon
against cup sounds like warning bells sounds like
run sounds like hide but later after the sky
broke open after I remembered how to breathe
after finding that quiet place beneath my ribs
I make it again same beans same water same
motion but now watch how the steam rises like
prayer like possibility like the way light
bends through windows and I'm no longer
trying to save us with caffeine and careful
measurements no longer trying to fill the
spaces between words with sugar and heat now
it's just this just my hands moving through
morning air like birds through summer sky like
thoughts through silence like love through time
and maybe this is what they mean when they
say it's not what you do but where it comes
from where it comes from where it comes from
this place of open hands this place of let go
this place of already enough already whole
already here already here already here