existential – Page 3 – Kevin Trent Boswell

a first world problem

being a poet and a songwriter
everyone assumes the things you write
are about them

a symptom of narcissistic culture,
exacerbated by social media

people love to be talked about
(favorably, anyway)

some people don’t even care if it’s favorable,
as long as someone is talking about them

write an angry piece about anyone,
and suddenly, ten friends are worried
it’s about them

twenty acquaintances
are boiling in their juices

say something vague about someone
who did you a favor and meant a lot to you,
people line up to take credit

write about a bad breakup,
half a dozen old girlfriends
are seeing red, blowing fuses,
about things that happened
five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago

even though, in reality,
it’s not about them at all

write anything romantic,
and a dozen girls are swooning,
each one quite positive
it’s about them

or they’re enraged because
they believe it’s about someone else

but that one piece,
the really sexy, romantic one,
the one that made you flustered,
flush, lightheaded with excitement

that one was
definitely
about you,

yes, you,
the one
reading this
right now

I swear

reengineered

reinvent the round, roly-thing
obfuscate, make useful stuff obsolete
situations we’d sorted out,
happily, a long time ago

some growing pains, yes, a sting
lots of sunk-cost fallacies to eat
and tales of yesterday to talk about
but no real satisfaction to show

unspeakable things

I may need someone to
bail me out of jail one day

a few rude words?
I ignore that nonsense

rise above that garbage
pseudo-alpha peacocking

I’ll laugh it off, or stare at you, blankly

but don’t put your hands on me or mine

I don’t know you, so I’ll assume
that you intend serious harm,
and that you’re capable of it

which means I won’t “phone it in”
or give unnecessary warnings

I’ll just break you, snap you in half
like a fresh string bean

I’m capable of far worse things than you,
on your best day, and my worst

I didn’t choose golf or video games
I chose martial arts, guns, and black magic

you are merely uncouth, and ill-tempered

I am polite, well-mannered, patient,
observant, and unapologetically evil

evil to the core

bonkers

the world has gone and goes
farther into madness each day

hands gripping the panicked ledge
clock prying weak fingers away

losing all safety and sanity,
stripped of it daily and nightly

if you can find yourself an anchor,
hold on to it fiercely and tightly

standard operating procedure

standard operating procedure
or the abbreviation S.O.P. for short

throw it out the fucking window,
as far as any attempt to navigate
the world, as it is, right now, today

nothing works the way it used to
and none of the old rules apply

reliability is no longer a feature
most people treat each other as sport

the only thing you can really know
is that for us, it’s probably too late
but there’s no one who can definitely say

it’s no longer just about what you do
it’s not only a matter of how hard you try

it’s easy to find a lovely creature
the attractive-on-the-outside sort

but when the inside parts begin to show
you might turn off or begin to hate
and lose your previous desire to play

if their nature is less-than-true
if they’re the type that’s prone to lie

you don’t need a guru or preacher
nor a bunker, a base, or a blanket fort

only a love to make your heart glow,
to change your mind about your fate
and honest, kind words to say

you need “do unto others, as to you”
and together, you can happily die

I Can Bleed

I suppose I could bleed for you
Or perhaps for myself or a friend
I could bleed for money and status
Or as part of a goal, a means to an end

And unfortunately, I have to say,
Because I’d rather not suffer in blindness,
That I will not be bleeding for you,
Because you never return the kindness