Podcast #2: January 13th, 2021
In time, poetry was given titles. This again I have no memory of writing, but I suspect I know which poet I was wishing would hear my work and point light in my direction…
The Poet, Sits At feet, I wait one moment’s chance; possibility, hands on belief. Maybe, I could attain these heights: small brilliance that he holds, to see. Look up, with hope for confidence within a heart too scared to beat. Might pass me wisdom’s gift, distilled chipped from a soul of artistry. Then comes a spark, awareness blooms, from too long spent in darkened rooms. No need for this to validate, a life that’s mine to own, path I walk alone. The poet sits no longer awed, as mentor moves no need to grasp. Perhaps it’s time; stand tall, ignore the need to feel beholden, tied.
Validation, of course, is a dangerous game and as time has gone on I’ve learnt to worry less about looking for other people’s acceptance and focussed more on the stories I want to tell in my own way. This poem was a response to a moment on Twitter that made me realize my world view will not always align with other people’s, and that’s perfectly fine.
Reboot Hill Self-appointed sheriffs copy-paste to clipboard stand by to snitch that moment hapless noob deletes... self-regulated warriors of hot misinformation recoil in desperate horror as expert witness, Tweets: self-indulgent white men put on their capes, continue attacking random women who never take a joke; self-nominated purists would never ask for reboot crowdfunding an antidote where nobody is woke... Reboot Hill is groaning full to overflowing shitposts full of corpses NFTs of strife: as the World is burning nobody is learning; Metaverse is pointless stop selling them your life.