I keep writing poetry about myself, and then I have to share it. It must be some terrible illness.

I’ve re-watched Almost Famous
and it’s been more than 10 years now, but fuck
some things just don’t go away, now, do they?


I never doubted I was Penny Lane,
but back then, back when I fell in love
with you
again and again,
I kept thinking you were the Enemy, the journalist,
the uncool kid in a land of rock stars
the uncool kid I myself wished to be
Because wasn’t it sad to be used
by you
again and again
when really, you styled yourself a Russell,
didn’t you?


It’s like that NIN piece I read a few months back:
teenage girls know where it’s at.
They love with their entire heart
and don’t look back.


But I grew up.
I didn’t think I would, I did my best
to flirt and fuck with Death at every turn
Noxious and nauseus, I survived. But didn’t thrive
no, not until somebody said,
Actually, you deserve better.
Actually, better is the bare minimum.
Actually, you don’t need to crawl and beg.
for every scrap of kindness and affect.


It blew my mind, it really did
More than any Led Zep riff.


Like all my life defining moments,
Almost Famous is about a man’s journey
But in between one’s growing up and the other’s taking responsibility,
there stand the women, and the gay man, and the roadies
The capital O Other, the none, the contrast
I mostly identify with ballast
And some might think that’s sad, but I remain steadfast
Because being a protagonist sounds so exhausting
I’d rather move and anchor stories with my weight
and for that, I can’t die at 27, nor can I be a waif.