Now only if everyone could stop pretending!
I'm literally so done with people like these. Like could you stop wearing that mask over your face and be you like really you for just once!
the wise old sun sighs
as the pretentious moon laughs,
dances with the stars.
My little friend is now gone
My tragic life must go on; despite that
His evil eyes and his cheeky smile still burn in my mind
He no longer exists except
For my memory of him
And I rejoiced
When I heard the news
Still I can recall how I sobbed
When he gave me his evil eye for the first time
When he hurled glass and other projectiles at me when he was hungry
When he spent hours upon hours pondering the fabric of society
I hated him
For his death
I was depressed
It was like paint peeling off a wall
It was like finding a dead leprechaun at the end of a rainbow
I was expecting some sort of remorse when he left
Funny how heartbreak works
Now read this in reverse
Because sometimes all you need
Is a little change of perspective
To truly understand someone
Dedicated to the goldfish I had when I was little who accidentally died. This is for you sweet fish <3.
I know of a man
appealing like a million dollars
but his net-worth cannot
amount to a single cent!
The devil does not have horns remember he was once an angel.
i used to believe that my sole purpose on this earth was to save other people. especially those that didn’t want to be saved. and it brought rise to the nights that i didn’t want to live because maybe I’m a failure. but then the child i buried in the backyard of the house i grew up in finds me again. she sits beside me with her stitched up mouth and i ask her where we’re supposed to run from numbness like this. how am i supposed to save everybody? how am i supposed to mourn when there’s no body? i apologize for never making room for her death in my bed because i couldn’t handle the weight of it all. how she’ll never go home again because i don’t know where that is anymore. i rip out the stitches and she speaks of rust and rot and the decay of a childhood never lived because nobody taught her how to care about herself. these words sound familiar because they’re my own. because they’re a part of me, piercing my lungs and rattling around like collected baby teeth. we never did believe in the tooth fairy. or santa claus. or God for that matter and the child knows all of this because she lived through it with her mouth shut. i tell her about the voices in my head screaming the names of who i have to save next and the darkness after sunsets spent with the people who left me after i did. i tell her about being a **** up, a burn out, a loser, a mistake, a waste of life … maybe i should just **** myself, and she tells me about heaving lungs once the coffin’s closed. at this point i’m dumbing my head down until i can breathe again and she starts telling me about spring. about laughter and knees scraped on pavement and true friends and telling people to get out without leaving the door unlocked afterwards. i dont want to, but i listen. she tells me about forgetting names and the new days that don’t taste of their skin. she says i was the one who buried her possibilities but maybe they won’t rot anymore. at this point they will never bloom but at least i can water them. at least i can try.
the child tells me of peppa pig bandaids. of healing and breathing. of sleeping soundly in my own arms, leaving the ones i love when they interrupt my peace and smiling without it tasting sour. she’s still afraid of the monsters in the closet but with me it’ll be okay. i tell her we have sharper teeth now. a salt rock nightlight and stronger sleeping pills so eventually she’ll get a good night’s rest. she tells me about the nights that i didn’t want to live and despite not believing in anything, she thanks god i’m alive.
the two of us sit in the quiet heavy of sunday and think of each other and how our throats aren’t closing around dirt anymore. because tonight is the night she resurrects. and i allow her to be a child. i wipe my tears and teach her how to live. because it’s my turn. because swimming alone is easier than breathing for two.
I USED to believe that my sole purpose on this earth was to save other people.
I know now that it’s just been a whole lot of practice for saving myself.
In my youth
I pretended to be
what I thought others’ thought
was prideworthy and praiseworthy,
and I was unjoyful and unhappy
self-annihilating my authentic self.
Now I am older
and I realise
only by being my authentic self
and striving for joy and happiness
using my authentic self
can I be joyful and happy.
I like to think I'm bright sometimes,
mindlessly warbling my words.
Dropping subtle reference to
the allegory of the cave,
the 101 of a white guy.
I have a confession to make.
I'm a liar, a ****** fool.
There is nothing academic
in my bones, just spit and hot air.
Perhaps once these words had meaning,
but for now it's merely static.
What gives you the right
What power do you derive authority from
And yet you come and act like you're in charge
Or you have some divine permission
Alas why but not to know
Come my bitter heart from within
Asking why you never notice me
Or why you can't accept your fault
I mean no disrespect
I do not mean to jab, poke or ****
But if you continue to act like you're better than anyone else
You'll have to be brought down
I need to express myself
For my mental health
Not to melt
But I don’t make art
Because it’s torn apart
Like a bleeding heart
Eaten by seething sharks
In a match of the friendless
Versus the defenseless
It’s the pretentious
Who condescend us
They hit all
With wit small
But sit tall
Behind thick walls
They see examining art
As a way to prove they’re smart
By blindly rejecting what others like
And enjoying the obscure
As if being different makes them right
Which is obviously absurd
On a plane where opinion
Is treated as fact
They claim dominion
Over the artistic track
By shooting black flak
Until I angrily react
And flies I attract
You might take the angle
I think everyone is painful
I’m not saying there aren’t angels
But there are definitely demons
With no explainable definite reasons
Why they call some artists heathens
Based on the nonsense they believe in
Pretension and ignorance
Have a large difference
But both are carnivorous
Most of their comments
Aren’t very honest
Nor are they modest
They just burn the hottest
Their judgment stuck
On calling everything putrid
The best filmmakers ****
The best musicians are stupid
They can hardly be called lucid
Trying to be the negative Confucius
Their hate reaping
One day reaching
I start to withdraw
Once they’re near
My heart won’t unthaw
Frozen in fear
The crowd is suggestible and fickle
So one negative trickle
Causes an avalanche of icicles
Knocking me off life’s bicycle
They discourage people from putting themselves out there
As they turn culture into a doubt fair
Only producing shout air
To reroute stares
Away from emotional expression
And toward themselves
With their rhetorical aggression
They put us in hell
Yes, it’s not all about love, or pain but surely it’s a metaphor for the depths of the halls we walk by ourselves amongst ourselves in order to confuse anyone that tries to wander too close to our hearts. Oh come on! Poetry is so pretentious.
To hide through rhythmic syllables, to share a sonnet with thee. To dedicate an entire repertoire of acoustic melodies in order to talk about her body?
Do not get me wrong, I love my fair share of dramatic soliloquies but it seems, to me that honesty has lost its value. Especially with writers. There’s no more truth anymore…no. It always has to develop into a complicated string of ideas. There was a time when writers were able to talk about a woman or lover or whatever, without invoking all the gods.
Learn how to love for what simply is