In Greek the word ‘truth’ has an opposite

and it has nothing to do with being false, or wrong,

but as I’ve been getting older,

truth has changed right before my eyes.

And time… It’s a bitch!

It’s got my entire body reaching to the ground

and it’s already started crushing my face every time I try to smile.

I’m at a turning point

where I’ve been feeling too old to be here,

but too young to be anywhere else

and I’ve flipped between a glass half full

to a glass half empty

and now willing to do anything for just one drop more.

I’m 33 years old and I feel like I’m falling apart.

It’s like I’ve only stuck around long enough to second guess myself

and I’m trying to find trustworthy sources for information

when I don’t even trust my own judgement anymore

and I’m looking for what meaning might still be left,

lost among the tidal waves of time

where we all take our place

in the rows of afterthoughts and misconceptions.

And the artistic side of my life has gotten to the point

where is my passions don’t pay the rent,

then the older I get, the stranger it’s gonna look,

like I were the ending of a rivers brook

where the water just swirls with dirt barely bubbling up to the surface.

But it’s not useless,

this writing is the only me I’ll ever know

and these versions of me are like seeds being sown,

ones sat at a desk,

ones broken from the years,

ones lost all respect,

ones distant from his peers.

And I’ve played my part in a world that’s either too slow,

or too fast to get us to where we’re going,

or to where we’ve always wanted to be

and what’s confusing to me

is that we only keep in mind where we used to be,

or where we want to be,

but rarely where we are right now.

This poem is a plea,

because we’ve been leaving ourselves behind like unread leaflets,

or leftovers left out for the dogs.

And like the stray standing out from the pack

I’m starving

and I don’t remember when my dreams became divided

between the stories that I’ve slept through

and the ambitions that I’ve put off until tomorrow,

and I don’t remember when it happened,

but at some point I stoped telling people about the things I wanted to do.

I stopped feeling like I was a part of something more that my own memories,

like I stopped reaching out into the world,

but into and through my own stomach,

where fingers gripped a spinal chord that danced like a marionette.

Can you hear me right now?

I know that I’m alone up here,

but I don’t want to think I’m alone in here,

because lately

I’ve been living my life without a target in sight

and I take my lovers for granted,

like the scented candles I burn like they were the real thing.

I just want to know more about myself,

like am I a kid in a candy store, or a bull in a china shop?

I want to know what I’m growing into,

because all I can remember is all the shit I’ve grown out of

and I spend most days

either working, or doing nothing

and I’ve been drinking like my liver were a shammy cloth

I could pull out and wring out anytime I wanted

and I’ve been smoking like my lungs were in a race

to a finish line that went over my head.

In Greek, the word ‘Truth’ has an opposite, and it’s this,

‘I slip away’.

I’m not wrong, I’m just not anything

and the truth I’ve learned so far…

is too many of us try to save face by cutting ties.

Misunderstanding the purpose of closure,

because we are the sum of our experiences

and we’ll keep changing until we’re dead

until we’ve fed our curiosities to the beasts in our hearts,

or at least died trying.

because the choices we make

create freight trains that just keep getting longer and faster.

And our voices open locks,

but our lives are lived like plane crashes,

we’re taking everyone down with us,

leaving our voice box’s to become the black box’s

that no one really listens to until it’s too late.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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