poetry critical

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The Reality isn't

you tap your foot in double time
to your heart pumping the blood
you just filled with magic;
the wait is the worst part;
anticipation for the boiling
hours to come
and block out the rest of the world
where you are the center
of the universe.
your mistress needs cleaning,
tuning, and attention
to detail; today you will
compose a sonnet
for your trouble and
woes; tomorrow
you will swallow your medicine
and pace the halls
of extortion and fraud
with half a smile, because
you're getting better
and better
at lying.
in a week you will be empty
of the weekends fanatic, frantic
celebrations and bloodsucking
ready to sleep an hour
only to wake and do it
in a month you will maybe
exist, maybe not.
you hope the evidence
is good.
you hope
consistency doesn't gamble
like your heart does
on slippery slopes
and the tiny beacons in
crumbled sand castles
collapsing towers.
in a year you might
pull your hair into a rotten bun
of decaying proteins
or you might wipe the sweat from
your brow to your skeleton neck
with your weak wrists:
the future you cannot know,
though you think enough
to wager that
a year is as likely as it isn't
to be enough ...time.
you want love,
you want admiration,
you want power, control, and fame.
you want someone to carve your name into their wrists
and for someone to keep you
at the top of their list,
stalking your digital ghost towns
looking for whatever went wrong
and why why why
did you become Narcissus?
why can't you put down the mirror?
why can't you give more than you take?
why do you build walls around yourself to hang paintings of yourself with walls around them to hang more paintings and more walls and on and on and
why are you still here?
why are you?
you want and nothing is new.
you take and nothing is new.
you fake all that you do
and though you leave clues,
you can't expect
an enigma this obvious
to be obvious.

11 Oct 16

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Fuck my writing is garbage. It doesn't read like poetry... does it?
 — dvdsxr

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