Poem: Post A-levels existentialism

Something’s gone wrong folks,
the bottle’s empty,
I’m as loaded as the gun
Hemingway killed himself with was.
It wasn’t meant to end up this way,
Halfway west of my final resting place
in a creased suit
gasping for air
outside a dusty road stop,
stuck in Neverland.

I could have been an indie darling
singing everyone’s favourite new tunes at Castlefield Bowl.
Opening for whoever Radio X’s new favourite band is.
I just never had the voice for it.
So instead I’ll sit chain smoking cigarettes;
a louche lounge lizard writing the next great poetry collection
to rival Blake or Byron.

What’s the point in artistic integrity
when I’ve got £4 in my bank account?
Christ knows where this artistry of mine is getting me
creative writing at university?
Who the fuck do I think I am?
An academic?
My attendance at college at one point was 75%.
Don’t follow my lead,
you should all know that by now.

The odes and laments are just waiting to pour forth from my mouth.
Critiquing every mainstream media product out there
whilst
paddling in this maelstrom of nihilistic indifference.

This grand nightmare is just getting me ready
for when I finally overwhelm myself with acidic spite.

There’s ash on my pants
and emptiness in my heart.
Is this another great poem
or is it just as manufactured
as all those kids wearing jean chains and graphic t-shirts of Michelangelo’s work?
Wait a minute, wasn’t I one of those before I had yet another existential crisis?
You know I’m just going to retract my statement
Apologies.

All these secrets I’m sharing
should have been coming to the grave with me.
Then I clocked that confessional diatribe
appears to be a great attribute.
So here I am spilling the beans on my personal life
to keep your dicks hard and your vaginas wet.
Well, to keep you reading to put it more politely.

You choose the truths.
They’re scattered far and wide.
You can catch a glimpse of their skeletal remains
if you look close enough.

What’s your worth
when you’re running rampant on tinder
and there’s a gunshot wound in your soul
that just can’t seem to patch itself up?
Been there, Seen it, Done it.
Unfortunately there’s no straight answer to the question.
Just fuck till you find the one it seems.
It truly was a success in the end
Trust me.

Surely this wasn’t meant to be it at 18?
Fear and loathing in whatever nightclub’ll take you.
Sunglasses from morning till midnight,
just to hide the tear stained eyes.

I’m sick and tired of my cynicism,
as much as I’m sure you all are.
Its just what is there to love
when you’ve had death, abuse and degradation at your doorstep so long
they’ve become your closest drinking buddies?

Friends,
if there was ever a time to look at the structure of the stanzas or peel back the lexis
it was long before I ever confessed anything to any of you,
that meant anything.

Ultimately, I’ve missed a trick or two, sure
but
at least I’m not a fucking instagram influencer.

Then again
could this life be much worse?
Fatigue and pessimism
Taking my Morning coffee as black and bitter as my train of thought.

Hey now, I know I’ve overdone it with the use of rhetorical questions
but I’m walking a tightrope of uneasy self-awareness
whilst trying to do the hokey cokey.
So it’s just my way of hoping someone will catch me before I fall.

It’s the pervading silence
amongst the voyeurs
that leaves me squirming in discomfort.
Leaving me to question
if that’s all this life is;
the greatest play on the biggest stage.

I’m tired of the behind the curtain commentary
I’m craving something real, something meaningful.
Not that it’s ever existed around these parts before.