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
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,
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.