Where does the good go?

You know what I think the best part of having a outlet of writing nobody reads is?

I can use improperly structured sentences guilt free.

Anyway, it's becoming clearer and clearer to me that nothing I can do in my life will really make a difference in anyone else's. It's almost as if all the talk about being able to change the world, force fed to us when we were younger was a cruel joke. The real world is not all love and hugs, kisses and baked goods. It's hardship. It's not a stupid quote from a movie. It's not a brilliant rhyming chorus in a John Cougar Mellencamp song. Even for those privileged with a financial, physical or mental head start in life it's inevitable that life and what comes with it will eventually catch up with them. Is it wrong to find pleasure in others misfortune, or is it human? are we even misfortunate or just unlucky? What is the point of all of this depression, unhappiness and nonsense? On the grand scale of things, nothing you will do today will matter in one hundred years. No word you can speak will truly make a difference. Everyone is merely a temporary canvas waiting to be written upon.

And those who can sing their song the loudest? They'll be the last to fill that blank page of random personality. These are the modern day philosophers. Advertisers. Marketing Campaigns. Political Ads. These are our modern day brilliant artists.

Art is, you know, something that evokes emotion from someone somewhere, or expresses and emotion. What spurs more mass emotion than a Jonas Brothers song? Or a presidential ad? Or a parade? Or a billboard? Or a flyer? Or a commercial? Those who claim to be the most unaffected are those who are the furthest gone. I'm not sure true happiness can exist for anyone. But I'm positive for most, it's out of the question. Happiness is a new Ipod. Happiness is a extra value meal. Happiness is generosity spent on ourselves. If it helps you to find the best deal on the best golf balls or the most for your money on potted plants, by all means, swindle away! If you can find happiness out of not spending what money you think you have, I salute you. I, however, will be the first in line for the new gadget. I just don't care anymore. Temporary happiness, or the illusion of happiness, is my religion. Praise be to those who can stand the sight of themselves.

And now? A poem.



Skids


Caught relaxing darwinism
Rhythm walking barefoot.
Connection too and being
and so, on and on.

Caught persuading Italy.
Pictured, wrapped and watered.
Boo-Hissed with Traversity
So noble on and on.

I bet you're spoiled rotten.
I'll see you in Milan.
an outstanding question answered
Is my Origin of Species.

As if we needed proof.
Every person is an animal.
Look no further than our nature.
To kill.
To win.
To battle.

I wonder why we listen to poets and nobody gives a fuck.

I've decided to make this an outlet I guess. It's not like anyone is going to read it anyway but at the off chance that there is someone in this same cosmos feeling the way I do at any particular moment, and can for one second share something with me, well, then it's all worth it.

"you win again"

why
am I
obsessed
with quick gratification
I'm sold on celebration
if I could arrange
a car to pick me up
and take me to the theater
to see my latest play
to hear the actors say
the words that I had written
the press would still be smitten
after a decade of brilliant productions
and sing my praises
as i watched from my box
but i
i could never achieve
that kind of validation
because i have yet to
produce any sort
of worth while material
an expression of myself
does not exist
and there for I do not.
But nothing changes
I'm merely a reflection
of artists I have cherished
everything i've written
and everything i've sang
everything i've filmed
and everything i am
is fake
phony
a rip off of true talent
that doesn't exist.