Member-only story
first-person pretender
so stagnant, so blessed
so desperate I try holding
a wet sleeve to my chest
I awaken sometimes
in a fog, smokey blue
my looks they are fading
tight neck, nothing new
I’ve taken my finger off
the monotonous pulse
of the moment…
let the stages and platforms
crumble and cave…
buried blunders, great ideas
so totally erased…
people are running marathons,
sprinting like chickens
to their graves…
leaky friends, hollow helpers,
nerves frayed at the end
distraction in video games
and my prose-happy-place
I seek reflection in others
I seek placidity and grace
but I’ve been locked out the door…
murmurs going on deep inside
that I’m a bad sorta sender —
disconnected loon,
a first-person pretender…
I only have a few gears
and they’re all rusted up —
manic, ironic,
and then doleful as fuck
you’ve crowded a paradise
with somnolent soldiers,
blind rule-followers
who think in memos and pay
no planned development
can rescue me from dogmatist hell
a renegade pilgrim
who only believes in himself
Franco Amati 2025
