it’s easy

You are loved
By many people…
Thoughts of you occur,
In good humor and good memory.

Who can resist loving you?

Like actually you, the person reading this…

I’m sick of people who don’t want filters
On their cigarettes when I can hear their screams from their
Future selves.

being our age

in your early twenties or whatever

you act recklessly and deep down

deep inside, in your real personality

your real heart.

you don’t care and the tragedy

is that

It’s a trap.
You still have people who will read this
And roll their eyes or whatever.

They’ll raise an eyebrow,

Their rules take over.

They’ll think, “Good god,
I already know death awaits me.
Why do you have to remind me?”

It’s like SHUT THE HELL UP!!!!

It gives me a headache to watch myself

Emulating Bukowski’s style by saying

Mingling at the pleasure-pools;
To watch my own mind and body wrapped up in seaweed.

The secret world of life is so fucking awful…

Drunken closure and festivals…
Festival vibes.

The beginning of this poem is ugly.

Each person is uniquely special;
To recognize the fullness of that reality
Is important beyond drunken conversations
With people.

Because it goes deep…

How special do you feel?

The walls dissolve when you stop resisting them.

To not have the multi-directedness of like
Walt Whitman’s poetry
In every goddamned moment.

Infuriating that the label of pretentiousness
Is out there waiting to dismiss…

I told my friend,
“I wish people understood that it’s important to support
your friends when they make art
because no one else has their style…
once they die,
it’s gone.”

He nodded, grinning, full of high-philosophy.
And said, “Yes, but that would be too easy.”

And you know what buddy,
I completely disagree.

All of these intellectuals trying to one-up
Each other.

Secret competitons,
And anger I see in every action.

Stephen still gets cluster headaches,
And no one can put it into words.

One thought on “it’s easy

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