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Oh look
another glass of red wine
another sleepless night

My face,
a smile plastered all over
mindless social media self-promotion
sheep to the organic slaughter

Clichés piling up in a dark corner

curling up in a dark corner
another cliché of a postmodern world

Another night of thinking
another night of drinking

Worrying about
if I’m truly myself
if I’m true to my “self”
if I’m

Worrying about
the girl I’m afraid of being in love with
the girl I’m afraid I’m not in love with

And again

My face

Plastered with the same stupid smile all over

Social media. School.

I wear the smile,
and I wave my hands in the air
like I just

I laugh at the self-promotion
the self, the stage, this here fucking narrative we’re all creating for ourselves

like we’ll ever become something real

like I’ll ever become anything.


What I say is:

“Yeah, I’m an artist, I see the world differently. I don’t believe in the capitalistic and self-concerned system consumerism has created in our time, and we ought to join together and break free of the constraints and live a fuller life liberated of societal demands.”


While what I mean to say is:

“Yeah, I’m an artist. I’m just not capable of performing, functioning in the real world like all the other grown-ups.”

But I can’t put that as my profile picture.


What I mean is:

“Yeah, I’m an artist. I get drunk a lot and talk about poetry, and every once in a while I write down a few sentences that sound good or look good and then I put them somewhere for no one to read hoping that one day someone will actually give a flying fuck about me and my words? And I know that there’s a million poets out there, and at least half of them are better than my plain bullshit.”

But that’s way too long for a twitter bio.


What I mean is:

“Yeah, I’m an artist. I know I should shut up and do something real with my time.”

That would make a terrible Facebook update.


What I mean is:

“I’m not special. Stop trying to make me think I am.”




My friends want me to start taking the medication again.