today i will write something

so here i am again in front of the computer. trying to write something to encapsulate a fleeting moment, or maybe a feeling. it is my own fault that i’ve conflated the objective truth with something so fickle as emotion, but regardless, i move on.

in all my poems i try to make myself out to be some sort of martyr, or mother, or at least a savior. i am afraid to become like my father because that means my temper, short as it already is, has solidified itself. it is not to say that i do not love my father. actually, what does it mean to love someone anyways? it’s meaningless right? at least, when you know that all of this goes away in a while.

all of this, being this life, this earth, this country (god bless america). we cling onto material goods like some episode of hoarders and expect everything to stay as it is. that’s why people hoard anyway; we want to leave an imprint and tell something in the future that “we were here!”, if not a little tacky from all the postcards they’ll be finding.

am i spiraling again? okay, quick, (!) name five things you can see.

1. the glass of water that has been sitting on my desk for a week
   1. stagnating, i meant to drink it at least two nights ago from another dream where i am falling, falling back into someplace cold. or warm. foggy and desolate, crowded and sunny. it’s all the same when i wake up anyways.
2. a picture of me from a year that i don’t remember with faces i don’t remember
   1. if i were to ask about it my mother would probably tell me something about how they loved me very much, and how it was such a shame that so-and-so happened and how it would’ve been nice to see them once or twice again
3. an origami crane folded neatly on my bookshelf
   1. this is from whose or whatsit. i think i remember liking it? or if i didn’t like it maybe i just smiled and took it because i was raised to be polite, despite what it looks like on the outside.
4. my something-hundred-dollar nintendo switch
   1. collecting dust under my bed, like all things will eventually. i too, laying dormant, will have a thick layer of regret coat me and still i will swallow it down so that everyone else can feel something other than what i feel like is right, even if it is made from my delusions.
5. …shit.
   1. what’s a fifth thing?
   2. what is something i can see?
   3. why can’t i think of something?
   4. shit.
   5. okay okay maybe what if i try writing something better?
   6. something better than all of this?
   7. where am i? sorry, what?
   8. i can’t
   9. think of
   10. anything

calm down. maybe i’m not spiraling. maybe, instead, this is all another grand misremembering. i have those. someone-or-other said that being a recluse is better than being insecure, but what if i’m an insecure recluse? i’ve tried to write a poem about that, i think. it was all terrible. maybe i’m overthinking this. maybe the bar was set a little too high.

but seriously! what if it isn’t good enough? like, what if they all hate it and then i get like booed to death or something? i’d never live it down! i’d actually shrivel up, die, die again because what do you even eat when you’re a shriveled up worm, and then die one more time of embarrassment!

so i’ve been doing everything they’ve expected and more, i’ve been couth and kind, i’ve switched tactics, i’ve tried my hardest and my least, i’ve shown how i feel and that got me nowhere, so now i know they’re only focused on the glitz and glamour of this so-called “reality” tv, but fuck that, it’s all scripted anyways.

and what if i’ve been lying to myself all the time? i know that the part of me that lives in some “manic-happy-go-lucky fever/daydream” is dying as we speak, his so-called extroversion merely a facade to hide behind. so welcome to the masquerade, folks. here you’ll see me juggling the fact that deep down, it all means little to nothing, that maybe i never meant to speak at all, and that i never asked to be here.

i never asked to be born, nor taken to the united states (america bless me), nor be a citizen. i never asked to be part of this mask-show nor be truly happy or sad. i never asked to be human or be turned from stardust into tangible, haptic, flesh and bone. i never asked for a god to come down and breathe life into me.

and still i’ve been so polite, back in front of these stupid audience members as they revel in what i call a madman, and what all the others call some sort of “Quirky-unfiltered-super-friendly-a-little-bit-insane-new-hot-attraction!”. (i digress, it’s not like i show them behind the curtains.)

did i just repeat myself? sorry, let me start again.

so here i am again in front of the computer staying up far too late and getting in my head is it too much for you then you can suck it up because we need you to be good we need you to be great we need you to set an example for whoever s going to see this so that they know we were here and so that maybe if i leave enough of an imprint on others it won t matter if it s good or bad because all i will be is remembered legacies do wonders for you if you play your cards right so walk that tightrope and juggle those smiles because that s what matters for a so called poet or was it clown or was it mime or was it some other memory i ve learned to repress

did i forget to punctuate that? i digress.

it’s all for you anyways.