Poems exploring whether or not we create our world, through reflections past and current .
livin' hard is hardly livin'
How many tries can a backpack carry?
How many lies does it take to please every
person around with their minds made up
that no matter what, I'm never enough?
Let's try to get through this fluidly,
as if this is the first time you're getting
to know me. It's passively awkward, right?
No wrongs or rights or end in sight;
breathe and release.
Tomorrow's another me.
How many personas can one pair
of Chucks deliver? More than one bears
witness to at any given moment.
You see it, you saw it, and now you're spent
or bent on making that your impression.
Are you satisfied with that intention?
Have you fully dialed up your compression,
or tried a simpler plan of investing
time and patience in another
person in your history to uncover?
I don't run in my backpack and Chucks
so much but I've abandoned giving fucks
in situations unnecessary, in order to
preserve my decency and independency.
I still deliver what I consider
standard wordplay for the clever and interested.
Maybe I'm not who you think I am, but listen:
I'm probably more if you sifted through
these words I'm gifting to you.
It's not like I'm expecting it though.
in a time of cultural complacency
the act of being yourself is revolutionary