My Own Spaghetti
It's just like this country—a hot mess
I'm sitting sweating buckets under the roof over my head
Reading a Twitter thread
On the phone my parents pay for
About how some people can't afford to work
It makes it harder to justify the choices I've made
To sit here letting my ass melt into the bed every day
I've got an email and a number and a WiFi connection
Decent looking clothes, access to public transportation
A Bachelor's degree hanging on my fucking wall
Looking down at me, watching my brain cells rot
Calling me out, saying if anyone can write a cover letter it's you
You've really got no excuse
Lack of experience? Self-induced
But I've frozen up in every interview I've managed to get to
Because I never had to study until I got to high school
And this test has questions I don't understand
Looking for answers I don't have
Making intriguing demands
For a service job I'm sure a few people really want
But those are the ones already working three jobs
And I'm great at bullshitting literary essays
But when it comes to myself, honesty's the only way
So as I spend each day waiting, self-deprecating,
Hating my procrastinating,
Feeling destructive as my motivation's fading
If I ever get up off my ass and onto my knees in front of management,
How will I remember my good qualities?
I know they're in there somewhere
And I know each day I lay here they erode
But long ago I lost the impetus to explode
I like to roll along watching windows close
And hey, maybe I'm focused on my art
Maybe this is a creative choice
I'm laying siege to my voice
And once I've starved it out,
It'll shout louder than ever before
Bouncing off the cavernous crevices of my closed bedroom door
That's how connecting works, right?
That's how you get seen?
Scream into the screen
And let the words seep into the seams
Stitching themselves into the web that tangles our minds and tongues
Don't stare at that blue light too long, or you might start to go numb
And not notice that you're choking on spiders
But they're not eating us, they're suffocating inside us
We have the power, and some choose to abuse it
I can only hope that one day I'll find the strength to use it
That day could be this minute
Shouldn't throw away these shots
I make my own spaghetti
And I'm not scrappy or hungry enough
To get tough
To grow up
To realize that setting my problems in verse doesn't solve them
And while it's nice to recognize the guilt stinking up my privileged ass
Being a lazy squeaky wheel won't help the reputation of the middle class
I am equipped to get a motherfucking job
I can afford to bitch about how it's so hard
So I can spin silky societal spider metaphors
Or stir my stumps, slap the sidewalk, and smack down some doors
I'll start by adding alliteration to my special skills
And I won't stop until I find someone who knows how that could pay the bills
Ha! It's all frills
I'm just stumbling around
I can't find an impactful ending
While I still feel half-drowned
Won't make New Year's resolutions in early July
For the same reason I don't make them any other time
My work ethic's an illusion
Perfected to trick the academics
Into coughing up more cash for me
The truth, as I've learned it, is simple, clean:
Other people hold me to things
I don't hold myself to anything
About the Creator
Violet P. Davies
Words make me feel fulfilled occasionally.
Keep track of me on Insta @purpleproseandposies
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