Poor Boy Christmas
‘Twas the day before Christmas, not a single gift purchased.
What does one get a Dad? It’s late & I’m nervous.
Fortnite for the nephews, some booz for my brother.
Entirely stumped on what to buy my mother.
It’s the day before Christmas & expectations are low.
I am flat broke & all of my family knows.
23 years old, considering baked goods & small crafts.
Everything in bags, none of my gifts are wrapped.
I bow my head and pray, that this year we skip church.
I’ve heard the story a hundred times, & know all about the birth.
It’s a climate change Christmas, in ugly sweaters and shorts.
Santa sweats obscenely as he flies through the north.
But today, it’s not the climate or the church on my mind.
Just thankful for the season and all the love we find.
Friends, family, & strangers take the time to be kind.
Everyone together, no need to divide.
All the gifts
Christmas gifs - with Will Ferrell dancing.
All the sips
& taking shifts - to wake Bob up when he’s napping.
Twas the day before Christmas, not a single gift purchased.
Today I love my life, even though it’s far from perfect.
Is it motion or just the motions?
The notion of tracking something cyclical.
Rotations go unnoticed, focused on several individuals
A year is but a benchmark, not of note despite the digit change.
Just a night of counting time, then counting time til you can disengage.
Uber surcharge then a $100 cover charge, just to go to bars I’ve already accepted with open arms.
Places I’ve already been to, reliving nights I’ve already lived through.
The ball drops, the crowd cheers, DJ plays a Drake song.
Open bar is done, you want a drink, but now it takes long.
We’re out celebrating just to celebrate & I guess that’s enough for some.
But when the countdown down to nothing starts I can’t help but to feel dumb.
Another rotation around the sun!
Conversing over resolutions,
from lost days wasted being wasted.
We’re no longer complacent with the status quo - we hope that “next year will be better.”
I just hope tomorrow is okay.
Mummers Day Mattress - soaked in the waste of a New Year.
Propped up against a Center City skyscraper, a bed that once held a man as he rested - the same bed where his relationships were tested, has been transformed overnight into a semi-public bathroom.
A disgusting obstruction, a six foot piss sponge. Of all the places to pee, why did I pick this one?
Here I am, pissing the bed before lunch time. Sometimes I think I’m a smart guy. Other times, I’m peeing in public with a beer in my hand making eye contact with a police officer.
A sea of drunk Philadelphians watch even drunker Philadelphians attempt to parade. Some attempts made are more valiant than others as sisters and brothers march hand and feet with twisted teas down their cities center street.
Sure, I’ve peed the bed before - in real life and as a metaphor.
But today, I can’t ignore that the cities filth runs straight through this mattress, maybe it is madness on my part to even notice. A bed is literally the closest you can get to know someone.
Now strewn about in an alley drenched in digested Miller Lite by South Philly’s Finest. The mattress life cycle has come full circle.
I’m not the best guy on Earth, come to think of it - I just might be the worst.
No matter my life, my sadness or status.
I can’t help but laugh at a Mummers Day Mattress.
Thousands of people watched this video, I have no idea how they found it. Shoutout to algorithms.
Alone with a Crazy Person
Often times I feel like people are excited that I’m different, “eccentric” they say. I’ve been told that my personality can be refreshing, but nothing stays fresh long.
Soon after, my charm wares off, the energy becomes tiring, the constant overthinking causes company to overthink, it’s stressful.
Eventually the day comes when people realize they’re not in love; I’m not special, they’re just alone with a crazy person.
Keep running young man, there’s not a ton worth stopping for.
Some days low visibility is nice, fog blocking out advertisements on the freeway as if to say “enough, let them be human today.” Everything can be a little much and I often catch myself wishing it was less.
It’s not fun being a contrarian.
Waking up each sunny day and putting on “I Wish It Would Rain” by the Temptations.
Waking up each rainy day and listening to “Sunshine” by Lupe Fiasco.
I’m as wrong as I am right,
& as right as I could’ve been to have left.
Leaving is always an option. People rarely leave where they came from for more than a few years it seems. It’s like relationships and memories are all we have in a world that seems to be smothered by TJ Maxx and Starbucks - Trump tweets and the same memes on our feeds..
Is there any way of being that hasn’t been satirized and recast on a Netflix Original about “friends in the city?”
I guess authenticity is broken, the act of being authentic in itself has to be authentic, yet we live in a time where people are trying to be authentic in a crippling paradox of self awareness.
So let the fogg lay over this confused city.
Block out the irony.
Block out the lottery jackpot.
Block out the miles of cars filled with people just like you thinking the same things.
Just keep running young man, there’s not a ton worth stopping for.
I feel doomed.
As if with each great stride made, there is the proverbial banana peel yards away, waiting for my worn-down department store sneakers to glide across the ripe yellow exterior. Fully aware of the banana - I never buy newer sneakers, I never slow down, and I never really consider what the consequences of falling are. It just feels like I’m supposed to be on the ground and it is really hard to fear an outcome you already feel you deserve.
I feel doomed.
It’s getting harder every day to look out into a sea of peers, strangers, and friends alike and feel as if I’m owed anything. The idea that I’m going to “beat someone else” for a job, or that the things I’m creating will somehow be “better” than someone else is not proper motivation. With nearly 8 billion people on the planet, I refuse to accept the narrative that any of us are special – which makes my delusions of grandeur seem less and less rational and more and more selfish.
I feel doomed.
But I’m smart enough to never trust my feelings. When no one believes in you - it’s really hard to know your ceiling. And how bad could doom be? I’d rather ride the Hindenburg or open Pandora's box like Heisenberg than spend my life weighing every word I’ve ever heard. Perfection is a fruitless endeavor. Just pound fists on the concrete and hope tomorrows better.
I feel doomed, we all are doomed. The road is filled with banana peels and I’m not particularly attentive. But you get up from falling down, from falling down and being inventive.
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