Timeworn and World-weary

There were days when I was powerless; dancing to the same song; my brain hardwired into a finite signature; the totality of those hardwired circuits nothing more than a feedback loop. Some things I said during that time, I also wrote down. This is one of those things.

Miniature Lengths (OaSoE)

Like a transistor radio blaring static in an empty room, we are relevant to only the air--
Wearing understanding and respect far beneath a carapace of assumptions and frivolity.
The gleaming truth borne on wings of glass, streaking across a smoke-stained sky--
We are the violence below, burning the streets with misinterpretation and envy.
The truth is ourselves, and ourselves are forgotten, shattered, ashen remnants of
a softer, livelier youth.

We are the tears we once shed from eyes unable to understand the anxiety of our mothers.
We are our own slamming bedroom doors.
We are the man in the newspaper, apprehended for inebriated choices.
We are the students on flyers, so jovially advertising our debt.
We are the suits.
We are acquiescence.

Through years of squandering petty moments on unworthy acquaintances and
tawdry affairs, we have become that which we were destined to be;
We are shameful miscreants dwelling on past sleights and misdeeds of lesser
import than a false smile on the face of a passerby.
We are the acts of a lifetime exemplified by our capacity for brinkmanship,
intolerance, vacant stares, and routines more bland than our bosses' wives.
We are nothing if not empty replies to foreordinate questions.
We are every act, over, and over, and over again, begging to be authentic.

A peculiarity of pertinence is that to which it pertains, defines it.

Oh, but we will not be

to be defined.