The Age of Dissonance

What does it mean to be?

Sick of the same sad flow, everyday another social media post accompanied by half-hearted captions,

painstaking math executed just to capture beauty, creativity, authenticity – when none of it is truly real.

news laden with celebrity worship – I say that as kneel at the altar of a few false idols myself and bring them burnt offerings of flesh and compliments.

It’s an accomplishment just to stay afloat through this pandemic, let alone in a state where Proud Boys have stormed the capitol six weekends in a row,

In protest of nothing, if they took the time to read through the evidence.

“Anti-fascist” is a simple enough concept yet it incites fear and anger in some – confusing, since wars were fought and won to ensure the world was free of fascism.

Peek through the shades, forced to wake up early on Sundays, Navy blue dress pants and scuffed shoes,

Cracks in the tile and chipping paint on the walls are all I could ever focus on from my seat in the pews.

The cracks, the chips, are all I can see now when I close my eyes.

I blink and relief washes over me like a tidal, all-consuming, cleansing.

Safe and sound for now, but still uncertain of what it means to be

successful as another cog in the wheel,

happy in a corrupt capitalist system,

awake through the chaotic, endless nightmare that is striving for the American dream.

Almost 30

Let your mind roam

to all the places you were never meant to go

all the rules you’ve broken

Non, je ne regrette rien

not a single lover or friendship laid to rest –

not a breathless night lost in karaoke

cursing, crying, drowning pain in whiskey

dancing in the wilderness

wild child running through the city

For that’s the charm of growing up

there are no real mistakes

just research

Gravitas

Sometimes looking back

you get livid with yourself

for being angry/pathetic/vulnerable when you shouldn’t have been

the permanence of the past rapping at the chamber door to your soul

find solace in the fact that while the past is permanent

the past has passed

Living

I don’t believe in Gods or Fate,

(The only devils I’ve known are men of flesh and blood)

But I do believe in love.

And Hell?

Hell is

loneliness,

loss,

abuse,

abandonment,

anger,

suffering.

I don’t believe in Gods or Fate,

But your love is

Heaven.

When Melancholy Calls

Unrest written on the walls,

a restless sadness sewn into your marrow.

From composed to utterly anxious in a manner of seconds,

wading through nothing but pure darkness.

Madness, they used to call this.

Carrying past lives around like the photo of a dear departed lover.

The burdens of your ancestors, kings, queens, slaves, grandparents and parents – all the same,

rushing through you, blurring your senses,

buried in your very essence.

Search deep down and you can find it,

drag it out from the great abyss.

Vodka, Whiskey, Gin – A Reflection

Vodka
First taste, first touch.
Long nights throwing up.
Hard lessons growing up.
Can’t say I’ll miss you all that much.

Whiskey
Tears and regret spilling onto hardwood floors.
Climbing out of taxis, searching for the love we all deserve.
Used to steady my soul (or so I thought).
The writer’s choice of self-destructive elixirs.

Gin
Bitter all the way down, ‘til you add olives and vermouth.
Held me up when I was but a husk.
Kept me together, kept me numb.
Pushed my body to the point of breaking.

All I’ve learned from these three, buried in my bones like hidden treasure.

Vodka, Whiskey, Gin – nearly a decade of love/hate, now it’s farewell, so long, our time has finally come.