When in doubt, write a pretentious poem.

Posted on: Tuesday, January 24th, 2017

Existhantial log 170124

Are we too old to be capable
Of mental strains we once knew as youths
Of giving up, snuffing the lights with sad songs
Feel as pointless as our lives are in its most

Are we focused too much on what’s in front of us
Slaves of what we desperately believe should be ahead
Tired of these aching, self-strained shoulders
And the cruel future I see as a broken reflection of health

Have you ever felt like you’ve been trying
To be too many things all at once
That being and becoming anything less than who you want to be
Is a complete betrayal to who you are?

Am I so petty, now oh so trivial
That small things knock me down
I crash at every disbelief, every lack of faith; that strangers mentioning my flaws
Hurt as equally as tiny familial disregard

I’m trying to find my center but maybe that don’t exist
Decades I’ve spent lurking this earth, a watcher that always fails to resist

I just want a single moment of clarity, perhaps even a week
When the world don’t treat me like a dick, when I’m paid as much as I was owed

Maybe if I destroy myself, I will find myself

But fuck it; I’m tired of being old

Written under 30 minutes on January 24, 2017, a Tuesday, around 1:20-1:40 GMT,
I’ll resist the nagging urge to rewrite and keep this thought bubbled as purely as it was soberly captured after waking up.

“Just hold on, kid, till that train makes Santa Fe.”


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