I am the drummer in the band.

We make music together, play hand in hand. But I'm not involved in where anything stands. How anything goes, how music flows, I have no say in when we're playing shows. The lead singer's the one who is making the call, picking the venues, directing us all. The bassist and I, we just have to kowtow, give up creative control and learn to let go. To fight the leader is to enact a coup, and I don't know about you but that's not what drummers do, we sit idly by, twirling our sticks, waiting for the singer to try another old trick.

A band is a love triangle, it's not a democracy, it always gets mangled. And strangled to death is what you could grow, if you hadn't let one person run the whole show. The lead singer is boisterous, loud and demanding, only happy if they're the last one standing, on a stage full of lights, being called the star, while the bassist and I wait out in the car. That's what you are, you're the lead vocals, penning the songs and fleecing the locals of hard earned money from an actual job, while you turn them into a riotous mob. Demanding attention, perfection and worship, only pleased if you're the only one involved in this courtship, and the bassist and I, we wear the costumes. She plays sour notes that only speaks volumes.

And I pound on my drums to get out my aggression, to relieve the frustration borne of your obsession, to try to forget all the pain that you've caused, the band's barely holding, the music has flaws. We could go solo, start a new band, but because you're the leader you're who's in demand, and the bassist is kind, she won't kick you out, even as it all spirals down into self doubt. The studio sessions are angry and hostile, cause you sing as though your words are like gospel. The audience are sheep, you preach to the choir! You've set the whole creative endeavor on fire! You might have talent, that much may be true, but what good are your skills without us backing you? You're too controlling, make too many demands, and if not for us nobody else would be in your band.

So go on, sing out. We'll play the song. While you strum guitars and string us along. And she'll play the bass, she'll pluck away, always give in and do what you say, but I'll beat the drums. The cymbals, the high hats, the snare and the toms. I'll keep the rhythm, and I'll play along, but just know that we both want to sing a new song. A song where our voices can finally be heard. Where they aren't obscured beneath your every word. Your lyrics are lies, and completely one sided, you've taken control and leave us divided. But what I can do? I can't make demands.

After all I'm just the drummer in the band.

i could write a million poems
but it would never make a difference
and why should it. my efforts are not worthy of acknowledgement.

so one sided. so very attached.
but to what? a fantasy, at best. a lie at worst.
still i give my all to those who won't give me the time of day.

i am sick of the illusion.
i am tired of playing pretend in the real world.
a fairytale, that's what this is. but a real one. with an unhappy ending.

not everyone gets to live happily ever after.

Passionless projects make up meaningless objects, an art not admired but ignored.

The streets used to be wider. I swear that they did. I know I was a kid, but they used to be thick. They used to have girth, a sidewalk as wide as the Earth. My memory is sketchy, but surely they were wide. You could fit neatly inside, tucked away like a bird safe in a nest. So where is the rest? When'd they get thin, lose all their width? Or was it always like this?

The trees used to be taller. Reaching for the moon, their leaves falling soon, it's early September, this is how I remember. Spilling onto the pavement, these yellows and reds, like someone colored the sidewalk while we slept in our beds. Like a volcano erupting, disrupting the mainland, they'll wash away in the rain and leave behind streaks of beauty for us to recall. I thought there was more, but was this all?

The hallways used to be longer. They used to have an endless row of door after door set snug between a narrow floor. A warm light overhead guided us down to more, seemingly never ending, an eternally descending corridor. They used to be longer, of this I am sure. The scope, an improbable length. That was its greatest strength, that it stretched onward, indefinite. I used to be scared of how long they would be, and now I can see, that perception was me. But I swear, they used to be longer.

The world used to be bigger. Now it feels so small. What happened to it all? Where is the expansive planet that once was? What happened, because it used to be bigger. There used to be more. The sky seemed taller, of this I am sure. Where once you couldn't fathom the length between states, now the length between rooms seems far too great. Where once an hour felt like a year, now fifteen minutes feel like they're never here. The world used to be bigger. I am not lying. But I think perhaps my innocence is dying.

Did I get bigger or did it all just get small? Or was this the size it was all along? Was I incapable of seeing it for what it was, preconception so skewed and all because everything seems larger when you are little. The world feels so big, your life not as brittle. The hallways, the trees, the sidewalks were massive, but was it because interaction was passive. Now I am here, now I'm fully awares. And everything's small.

And nobody cares.