Scattered and disturbed,
Like feathers lost by birds
In empty suburbs,
The things I wanted are the things I am.
The mirror stares at me,
All buttons undone,
Misery welcome,
And all the things I wanted are the things I am.
Through all the pain, discarded and forgotten,
Between empty cups of coffee,
Half eaten sandwiches and lost words,
All of the things that I wanted are the things that I am.

But wait, says desperation,
You’re not made of things,
You’re made of this
Gorgeous spectacular feeling
Of being a being.
You’re made of star dust
And metal rust,
You’re made of hope and made of trust.
You’re made up empty and I must
Admit that filling the feeling
Was a bust.

i just keep thinking of those moments i missed with you
and you weren’t missing them with him,
and touching his lips,
kissing his hips,
and angering his joints in a way that was joyless.
i miss you the way you miss him.

oh, what a year this has been,
as if this ocean kept trembling,
moving, shaking,
and i was just this piece in the middle of nowhere,
with no control over other people’s bodies.
their thoughts, their minds,
their hugs and their kisses,
all lost, between my thoughts
and my lack of mind,
between our arms there’s only distance,
and no one is clingy now,
because how can we cling to each other
when all we have is ourselves?
the clocks are static, but the dates keep moving on,
and we’re trying to survive,
we’re trying to keep everyone alive,
and they try to keep their finances alive.
no one knows what they’re doing,
but they do know what we’re doing,
and it’s clear by now that no one is doing the right thing.
the shifts are both massive and small,
just like the ticks and the tocks,
i used to think i have it all,
but what a time to be alive.
i keep hiding behind locks,
transported from bed to desk,
from dreaming of you to a nightmare so grotesque,
where people sneeze on me and hug me.
oh, what a year this has been.

Fashions come and go,

And it’s like we’re transforming with them.

The denim jackets, the ballet flats, the eyeliner, the expansion of our souls.

Anything can live between the age of 14 and 34,

It feels timeless and wild, while it feels mature and secure.

I wish I could live between those ages,

When most of my learning happened,

Before my sadness settled.

Yes, definitely I wasn’t the happiest,

But clearly I wasn’t the saddest either.

I’ve done so much, and still, I had so much to do still.

Dreams were not out of my reach,

And paths could still be changed,

Anonymity was a thing, while internet was blooming,

Accessing everyone at one push of a button was a legend,

But people were still able to connect.

This whole thing was a mess, a beautiful mess,

Versus what we have now.

I miss the simple times of troubling to connect,

The simple times of troubling to grow,

The simple times of no knowing and going for it.

The devil is in the details, and I’m the devil now.

And you’re hooked on the details, but not on the devil.

Yet you keep searching, lighting the outside, forgetting about the inside.

And I’m not in your details, and now you’re my devil.

This judgement call brought no temperance, no strength, no magic.

This judgement call has me hanged upside down, and dying.

No justice, no peace, my crystal tower tumbling.

No wisdom, no truth, no hope, but your love is humbling.

I love you, but now how you want it.

I’m what you want, but now how you want it.

Tell me, son,

Does it hurt when kneeling at the altar

Of pain and torture

You created

With your own sweat and blood?

Does it hurt to keep consuming

Someone else’s flesh,

Their dreams and hope,

Their fluids,

Their menses,

Always assuming

That you’ll have access to this form

Of human,

Designed to serve you,

Designed to nurture you,

Designed to live at your feet,

Does it hurt to know

They’ll never have it better,

There’s no way out

For this poor soul,

They sign their contracts in the blood you let,

They eat your scraps,

They’re happy with your slaps,

Rather than nothing,

Rather than not being touched,

Rather than being starved,

Rather than be invisible,

They take whatever they can get from you,

And yet.

You still give them nothing.

Tell me son,

Is this how I taught you to live?

Is this how I share my wealth with you?

Do I let you shiver in the cold,

Walk barefoot through sand and rocks and wet rivers,

Do I spit on my already chewed food before I serve you?

You’re not who I thought you are,

And you say empty words of love and promises.

You’re not what I taught you to be.

I am god.

Infinitely.

it’s easy to be mad,
to feel like you’re fighting the wrong way.
maybe you’re saying too much, or not enough.
you feel the ties, and then you feel like it’s a one way street,
and then you keep guessing what’s their next move,
it’s like a never ending movie
of rollercoaster rides,
of trying to ride the tides,
of not getting enough sleep or clarity,
of feeling like you’re asking for charity.
and yes, it’s easy to be mad,
when you’re only mad at yourself.
for being weak,
for being too strong,
too lame or too independent,
too angry, or too dependent,
careless or too demanding,
and there’s no right way of feeling these feelings,
but there’s a very wrong way to express them.
take your time, because they took everything from you.
you need to rebuild, you need to be thrilled.
let them have your old you, it’s easy to sleep with ghosts.
keep your new you to yourself, and move to the other coast.
it’s okay to be mad, it’s okay to be scared,
let your anger fuel you and let it be shared
with the root of all evil, this handsome devil,
that, in their stupid way, brought you to a higher level.