Tag Archives: disappointment

Little Girl Lost: a random playlist poem

It took a while, but
I got fed up
with your pretentious act:
imagining each night to be
some midnight runaway,
a tender soul
destined to be
a vagabond of the western world.

Did you want me to
hold back the night
so all your vain, precocious dreams
had time to
bloom and feed you
their narcissistic nectar?

You were more than a
little trouble, girl;
and certainly not worth
the time I wasted
before waking up.

09 APR 2014

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Could be, perhaps, that nothing bad
has come to me in life;
or that which seems to others sad
and cause for care and strife

to me has been mere shadow’s play.
My days’ and night’s events
could look to some a grand array,
an endless stream of merriment

filled more with smiles than tears.
I’ve never struggled, you might chide,
in all my living years;
nor had look in from outside

while others shared the pot.
My ailments, those of wealthy men,
expensive tastes and rot;
a disappointing might-have-been

reduced by sloth and slack
to meaningless and endless work
that feeds neither the mind nor back,
creating a mere bitter jerk

who knows no more of love and loss
than what defines the words.
That poems like this I can toss
away in moments, seems absurd.

Could be, perhaps, no tragic tale
lies hidden in my smile;
Emotions? Fabricated veils
to mislead and beguile.

Could be, but you will never learn.
For all you’ll ever see
is what I throw away and burn:
my emptiness, not me.

30 MAY 2012

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The Dead Room

I wonder why you come to hear the blues;
there is no recognition in your face
of any depth beneath the music’s steady pace,
nor rhythm to the rare tap of your shoes.

While those around you sway and nod their heads,
acknowledging a lyric with a shout,
you sit in awkward silence; and no doubt,
imagine yourself somewhere else instead.

And yet you come, and sit, and watch me play,
absorbing the crowd’s energy, and mine;
you leave no tip, no word of thanks, no smile.

Where did you learn to act in such a way,
a black hole dousing every light that shines,
that counters all catharsis with denial?

24 JUL 2007

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What Really Matters

Could be bitter; what’s the point?
Each generation must anoint
its own legion of heroes to cut down.

Complaining they did not pick me
this time around seems to be
another way of sinking in the ground.

Between the cracks sometimes you fall;
you’re lucky to be seen at all.
So many live and die without a sound.

So what that no one knows my name,
that somehow I’ve eluded fame?
despite all that could be I’m still around.

What really matters, after all?
You get right up after you fall
without expecting some reward each time you do.

What really matters, in the end?
You find some truth, maybe a friend,
because the only thing left to become is you.

Could be bitter; what’s the use?
The world needs pointless self-abuse
like it needs one more song about the rain.

Insisting some conspiracy
must be to blame, and woe is me,
just sounds like an excuse for being lame.

Between the headlines that you read,
you find the news you really need
or else you don’t learn anything at all.

So what that no one sings my praise
then tires of it, in a few days?
The headlines make the other print so small.

What really matters, after all?
You get right up after you fall
without expecting some reward each time you do.

What really matters, in the end?
You find some truth, maybe a friend,
because the only thing left to become is you.

22 FEB 2007

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I don’t want to spend another uninspiring hour
in a smoke-filled bar pretending that I care
about some great rebellion, or the poetry of freedom,
dropping names of people that I wish were there.

Even if I felt like drinking, it would feel just like more boredom,
endless motions in some pointless riparte;
just words wasted in a neverending stab at conversation
trying to forget I’ve got nothing to say.

I don’t want to mix and mingle with another group of strangers
who are only there to see and to be seen;
interested in the deception of making some great connection
over shots of cheap tequila and Jim Beam.

I don’t care about your politics, your sex life or your business,
and you damned sure won’t be interested in mine;
so what’s the point of all of this? It seems so unimportant;
and a lot like wasting too much precious time.

I don’t want to spend another minute doing this great nothing
that we seem to think is how to get along.
If that’s all there is, I’m finished; you can muddle on without me.
I won’t bother writing you any more songs.

11 FEB 2007

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Isn’t That Something?

Haunted by a hurricane that made it clear
who does and doesn’t matter;
you learn to keep your mouth shut, though the beer you’re drinking
tastes like muddy water;
You’re told just pretend that nothing’s changed
because illusions tend to shatter;
don’t make a clatter.
Suffer in silence.

Listening to a government that makes it plain
it has no truth worth telling;
You learn there’s not much difference whether it’s the left or right
that does the yelling.
You’re told to play along, to keep us strong,
’cause that’s the only dream worth selling;
No shadows need dispelling.
Believe the nonsense.

Reading about hate that doesn’t sleep, but seems to spring
from out of nowhere;
you learn to figure out who makes the rules, but says
they aren’t obliged to play fair;
You’re told your side is right, the side of might, thanks to a blessing
that you won’t share;
Nobody wins, but who cares?
You look good dying.

Watching for the stormclouds once again;
another war, another season.
you learn to test the wind, to judge the spin
and it’s end effect on reason.
You’re told to shut your mouth, that any doubt
is ample evidence of treason.
Silence is more pleasing;
there’s no point trying.

Haunted by a hurricane that made it clear
not many can be trusted;
you learn to seek the holy in the strangest places,
where the world is rusted;
You’re told, keep a low profile, watch your step,
or you might end up getting busted;
People would be disgusted.
Keep it in private.

Listening to a radio that makes it plain
it’s more than sound they’re pumping;
you learn to find your own songs, without caring
if your single isn’t jumping;
you’re told no one will listen, if it’s not the same old thing
the speaker’s thumping;
Now, isn’t that something?
Some kind of bullshit.

21 DEC 2006

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A Week in LA

After almost twenty years
to spend a week out in LA
and to watch through hotel windows
where the rich and famous play

(or at least some folks pretending
to be worth the time of day,
either rock stars in the making
or young vultures seeking prey)

without caring much about it,
but just wondering, through my stay,
if I could have done things different
and still been alive today;

’cause the toll of fame is heavy,
when you live out in LA;
and despite the years, it’s still more
how you look, not what you say.

It’s almost a foreign country to me,
lit up for display
where you feel excited to arrive
but glad to go away.

20 NOV 2006

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