Nothing feels good
and the silence isn’t helping.
I could move but what’s the point?
Anger’s got the best of me.
To think that when I woke up
all I wanted was for home.
Now the air just stinks of shame.
I feel less than zero.
And all that gets remembered
is how I’ve failed you again.
It’s all a bit depressing,
like singing in the rain.
The over-sentimental
mere dreamers all the same.
It’s all a bit depressing,
like Pollack splattered paint.
Squandering potential,
my spirit slowly wanes.
the world is full of stock responses.
Drunken rants and sober prophets.
The type of things people say to do
that even in their cool sincerity
would never do themselves.
Are capable people incapable of good advice?
Or are jokes just easier to offer?
Is saying you don’t know so hard to admit?
Or are we so prone to speak that it doesn’t matter?
With nonchalance and anxious laughter
everyone knows everything you don’t.
With due respect and eyes that wander
everyone’s got the answer for things they can’t control.
In a world of stock responses—
I hear the words that don’t come out
and do my best to listen.
I take them with a grain of salt
and read between the lines.
I see their good intentions get
distorted by this feeling,
that no one has the answers, and some things never change—
I’ve just left the conversation
long before its end.
This coffee shop is cold.
Reading Murakami
my vision’s blurred by
inconvenient tears.
Why are all your thoughts so uncertain?
It’s knowing that any explanation is probably false.
Coming to these kind of places
in search of conversation? To escape myself?
This place where everyone seems so distant?
Propagated by the idea that coffee shops are for intellectuals and pseudo intellectuals alike
so for that matter, what’s even the point?
To think there was a time when I’d walk up to any of these strangers just to invade their private world.
Now reading Murakami,
I barely lift my head.
Words Of An Average White Male 