if a literal poet can survive,
if anyone really cares and suffers as a result anymore?
Now i ask…
Has the era of the romantics really come to an end?
I sit on the front porch watching the rain,
live oaks drinking it all in before the summer droughts.
In the background, people coming and going coming and going.
We have figured out the game, hacked it
and now we are bored
coming and going.
Everyone has seen behind the curtain now
and so we have stopped believing in magic.
Those who claim happiness are delusional.
It is an ideal as dangerous as depression.
Happiness ignores the sad pain that wraps her arms around this world,
prevents us from feeling actual reality,
ignores the mix of hunger pangs, nausea, and marshmallows
all someone caught in the throat.
My life is not a movie, or a book, or a work of art.
My life is minutes through air and words on a page.
No one is going to see me, nor should.
No one is going to read this, nor should,
yet i have been conditioned since birth to be on display.
They forced my skin to be thick,
but the skin never heals the branding.
My scars are forever.
Allow me to hide in here, please.
With you, give me a home for this moment.
The world hurts too much.
Noise keeps coming from all sides and i talk and talk and talk
because it is the only way for me to not hear it all, feel it all.
I blast metal and chaos into my ears, as loud as I can,
trying to drown it all out,
the pain and the rhetoric and the righteousness.
Some of us just feel too much.
Some of us feel everything,
and are surrounded by suffering and hopelessness
and this false myth of happiness everyone is hopelessly suffering for.
I believed it all was going to change,
but the era of masks has outlasted the era of the romantic,
and us few empaths scattered among the masses of your society
are helpless against your onslaught;
We are alone throughout the night
hearing, listening to the weeping sobs seeping from our earth
feeling, like buried splinters, each and every out of tune frequency
knowing how to give what is needed
knowing only how to give, and never to receive.
We are a one way door with endless hands waiting to grab what they can from us…
We few bear the burden of the denial of those delusionally happy…
I understand that all of these sentiments might simply be
a passing feeling, a storm to weather,
but it really does seem we all work from home now
(The Era of Practicality)
and we are proud to be individuals
(The Death of Romanticism)
as i watch the sun rise behind the rain,
dreaming, absorbing, crying,
surrounded by walls of mirrors,
wondering too much, gripped to deeply,
typing away in the grey sadness that is “America”.