I sit on my balcony
tonight smoking,
thinking of all the lives
I’ve led in my lifetime,
all the roles I’ve played,
the cards I’ve drawn —
The naïve young man
who lusted with an unmitigated
possessiveness and rationalised
that it was love. All I wanted
then were her curves
and the taste of her skin.
I made her an object,
an apple I bit into,
but justified it,
saying something pop-philosophical
and clichéd like desire breeds love.
Looking back, it didn’t matter
that she wanted the same thing
because I foolishly gave my
delusions structure,
fitting madness in a box,
and hoping it would stay there,
but one can’t contain
a menacing gargoyle
with its fangs and razor sharp
wings. It eats belief,
gorges on faith, turning
the flawed, starry-eyed Lothario
into a hopeful pessimist,
fist fighting the world
to get them to recognise him,
agree that he’s changed
until the silence he receives
(which is worse than hate)
bites him with its invisible teeth,
its transparent venom flowing
through him, turning him
into a spiritual nihilist,
asking God all the wrong questions
in a vengeful tone, forgetting
that he brought his sorrow
on himself. An unjust
cry without blasphemous
declarations or atheistic
proselytising. He still believes,
but wonders why God is impersonal
and cold. Why? Why! WHY!!
He screams, converting rage into
a puritanical zeal, shoving
aside scruples while simultaneously
caging blasphemy in tiny,
prison cells of anti-thought,
inching towards unbelief
while gripping religion until
it scars his hands.
I became a man
of contradictions with
a soul full
of bleakness and passions
until it broke me,
shattered every dream,
addled my mind
and left me with nothing
to gain or lose,
my truth scattered to the
4 corners of the world,
my conviction a shade of
the ugliest beige,
and escapism my only friend,
a no-role role, a dead man’s dance,
a whatever/anything/something/
nothing/I don’t give a damn
attitude evoking noise rock
or some deranged progressive
stuff beginning in a low hum,
crescendoing before going off
the rails and ending in a snivel.
St..a..tic.. turning into radio hush,
a nonchalant, sayonara
señorita swansong
with me shunning
almost everyone
and going my way.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Ordinary Person 
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