mayhem

my bones are all aching,
a few of my ribs, broken;
the skin is cut to shreds, scratched,
blotched in bruises of all colors:
yellow, black and blue.

however, you should see
my pride.
the punching bag
of my existence.

(there is no salve for it)

#13

“winner of me”

french, spanish, italian
a master’s degree,
and after other languages, later, a PHD.
so many accolades
so little time,
so eager to please
parents, peers, others!
such a need for praise
and papers, like a kink.

awarded, laureate poet:
a prize for best choice of words
but not a single feeling
on paper
(apart from emptiness).

projecting a childish need
to win,
to be as special as you were told you were,
to have a movie-like life
as you were promised…

except life isn’t like this!
you don’t always need to win.
sometimes, you just need to be,
to wander, to question,
without the pressure
to fill a house with cold
titles,
to fill up the hours
so there is no idle time
for loneliness.

(grumpy person yells at clouds)

your grandiosity
is a great
mediocrity.

there is nothing special
about you
or your friends;
your vintage filters
on your social media selfies,
or your conversations
about your fantastic parties.

there is nothing special
about your geometrical tattoos,
your metal piercings,
your overpriced clothes,
your shaved haircuts.

there is nothing special about me
either,
but at least I’ve come to acknowledge
that I won’t change the world
by posting updates
to other people that pretend to care.

at least I’ve come to realize that,
in the end,
I’m just a dot in the universe,
I’m just another sad person
in that Bukowski poem:
alone,
watering my plants.