Stories.

[kaos]

 
 
It never runs out of stories.
But I don’t have the will to write them any longer.
They all look and sound the same these days, more so than they ever did.
And what exists is dreary enough already, and needs no repetition.
What a sad little condition…
Not really though. Not if I were to look around.
And I do, without any blinders, I look in all the dirty corners and hidden nooks and forgotten hellholes,
I make it a point to visit them once daily, in person or spirit,
And I don’t try to ‘understand’, I don’t try to rehabilitate,
I’m there because I’m one of them and I join them as we defecate,
Upon the ever growing remains of the ruined empire.
Hoping that one of them princesses ‘trapped’ inside finally gets bored,
Jumps out and joins our rebellious hoard,
And momentum on our side, we finally wield the sword,
And cut of the head of the demon, as the prophecy foretold.
A fantasy so perfect that even the rhymes fit. But it’s an overdone bit, isn’t it?
They all are in truth. And so they all get rejected, I still sit here dejected,
The practice perfected but suddenly purposeless…
In truth I feel quite useless.
And there’s no gloss to this, no analogy to deepen the empathy,
No metaphor to soften the blow and no wordplay to show skill.
To feel useless takes away all that you have built up for yourself and makes it appear…
As if it was a joke. A really cruel one but hey, aren’t they all?
A joke written by that tempestuous whore that is the universe,
Who has crafted another quandary confusing enough to amuse her for a second,
Just to pass the time until the eventual apocalypse.
Now even she reminds me of you.
I think of boots that cover the calf, skirts that just concern themselves with the butt,
And a shimmering stocking in between.
But if this is all I do for the rest of my life, they will say that I have lost my sheen.
If any had any to begin with but put that aside,
Listen to what I say before they fill me with hollow pride,
On a misty moonlight monsoon night,
You fucked me over and since then it’s just not the same,
My growth has stopped and what once was good is now lame.
Don’t blame, they say, focus on yourself.
It is what it is, why can’t you just accept?
A creator, a benefactor, a victim and a scavenger, they all walk into a bar,
And just before the creator leaves he makes the artist.
A lawyer would have been better in the long run, or maybe a shrink,
A journalist to cover the story? Or a scientist to craft a theory?
The lawyers are corrupt. The shrinks are gilded shit. The journo’s are all biased apparently,
While the scientists? They all hate each other. So they are too busy to be of any use.
So only a poet was left, easy enough to misuse. Abuse. Throw around like refuse.
Bruise.
A poet so emo that even I myself want to puke. But weren’t all hellholes my haven?
All contradictions my bread and butter? All misconceptions and maya and other all such other esoteric and elaborate shit we make to cover up basic fucking human emotions that we all have, how can I not wallow in what I expelled?
A poet beats the rest anyway, for poetry is dead.
And so, I have no one to love but you.
And so you know that my love will always be true.