the gossip, the toss-ups
the dress to impress
the strawberry lipstick
my hopeless hope for you to stick
around a little longer
for you to get a little closer
or me,
for all that mattered
my writing was bliss
but if your denial knew better
fall out boy knew best
when it came to put the toothpaste back in the tube
the beats back in the heart
the figure in the figuring out
how it feels to expect
something out of nobody
for the higher the hype
the heavier the let down
whats life but an endless set of expectations
that belong to you, but mostly dont
and the dazed reactions life tends to have
to them
to you
and all the fucked up ways you try and find
to make it feel okay
or less not-okay
or to think of your awkwardness
not as something to apologize for
but rather as the only ground you have
to build your own persona on -
so lets make it a high school reunion
every night of the week
for the sake of old memories
or as a reminder of how we went
from everything to anything
to nothing
from neverland
to nevermind -
do you want to go to prom with me?
history (re)lies
on the could haves
the might haves
the should haves
and the reason-whys
but then again
it’s just history
a partisan caricature of the past
an awkward still
among pages
of a pricey textbook
overloaded with arguments
that nothing have to do
with those we used to have
in silence
in stillness
in loveless hotel rooms
in which i swear
i could have blown my brains out
years before
i actually stepped foot in them
years ago
that feel more like
lives ago
before i realized
students get bored over history
people get over it
and so should we
instead of overestimate it
overanalyze it
as to find ways
to feel entitled
to look for ways
to make the wrong
seem the proverbial
love
at the right time and place
your hand on my chest
i want you to feel
this
meta-communication at its worst
we’re nothing but waste
radioactive, at that
acrobats, whose only paying audience is each other,
and whose only challenge is each other
in the form of challenging each other,
performers of ineptitude,
extras,
stuck between d-lists and
“you’re not on the list”
euphemisms to impress the appraisers
transatlantic noise and pacific hustles
go easy on me VS it’s easy to go
completely insane
as in thinking
there isnt much of a difference
between
falling in love
with the events
and being fooled
by the narrative techniques
I love the performance of a craft, whether it is modest or mean-spirited, yet I walk away when discussions of it begin, as if one should ask a gravedigger what brand of shovel he uses or whether he prefers to work at noon or in moonlight. I am interested only in the care taken, and those secret rehearsals behind it. Even if I do not understand fully what is taking place.
