bitter.

A more adequate title for this might be:
“On giving up”

So
I’ve been comparing notes with friends,
And it appears we’ve all, somehow,
Collectively and simultaneously
Come to the conclusion—without actually discussing
The matter until recently—that we’re done with this lifetime.
We can’t do much more with the cards we’ve been dealt
And it’s not that we want a new hand,
We just want the game to be over.
No, the realistic possibility of a suicide club
Is not what should be raising red flags,
Rather, the more salient item worth extracting
And underscoring is the fact that
We’re all just losing hope.
Perhaps our generation is just lazy and apathetic.
Or, something else is afoot.
Now, I might just sound like
A poor little rich boy, whining and being emotive
And inventing conspiracy theories
Because things aren’t going as planned,
(Because the days are already getting noticeably shorter
And it’s getting colder, and the dishes keep accumulating,
And my hair only looks good when I don’t wash it,
And keep forgetting about the plums I buy
Only to find them rotting away when I do remember them,
And I can’t actually paint or play the piano,
And painting and playing the piano
Aren’t actually productive or practical pursuits
Because there isn’t even a job market for artists,
And I can’t get to bed at reasonable hour,
And I definitely drink way too much,
And I’m not worried about my carbon footprint,
And it’s too taxing to keep track of the pain
Of the surrounding villages even though I wish I could,
And I’m single and more than aware and bitter,
And even if I wasn’t, it’s not like
I could legally marry the one I loved anyway.)
But everything is relative, right?
And this occurrence isn’t isolated.
I’m not the only one.
We’re all becoming less inspired
And rapidly losing hope… together.
Which is morbidly uplifting.
But also troublesome.
We’re all waiting for some sort of
Divine intervention:
To peel back our chocolate wrappers
And find that golden ticket,
Or for the law of attraction to finally kick in,
Or for the sky to fall,
And for the world to end.
Why does it seem like everything
Is out of our hands?
Why does it seem like
“Nobody is steering this ship.
We're all just looking nervously
At the approaching iceberg
& wondering if we can raid the bar”?

What is happening?
And why don’t we care?

If I had the time to figure it out
And report back to you, I totally would.
But right now, building a seed vault and erecting
A doomsday bunker seems like
A better use of energy.





“And if I had the patience and I had the money
And I had the humor and I had the offer
And the space and the time and the talent
And I had the power and I had the reason
And the virtue and I had the cunning
And I had the status and I had the wisdom
And I had the audience and the admission
And I had the method and I had the quiet
And I had the motive and the story
And I had the money and I had the time
(And you had the slightest clue what all the fuss was for
All of the times that I say that I’ll do it
It’s nine-hundred-nine that I secretly ruin
It’s good that I tell you this over and over
Over the rainbow and out through the back door)



Then I just might try

If only I could prove it
If only I weren’t stupid
If only I could torture
All the people who can do it

And if I had an offer to be better
I’d decline

And if that were more awful to consider
I’d be fine

And if it were all my fault
That I’m bitter…”