Emotions

In a few generations,
Grandma's amazing cooking
Will have become a myth-
Because it would be perceived as too sexist an idea.
Or because women in our generation perceive it as sexist to perfect the art of cooking.
And I'm not saying it's a bad thing,
Or a good thing,
For that matter,
Only that it's a sad thing.

You know what's the biggest delusion we feed ourselves?
It's that the three thousand Facebook friends we have,
Actually give a fuck about that chicken parmesan you ate for lunch.

I think I've forgotten how to write poetry,
Or how to write,
Or how to fucking think about anything,
Without smoking a packet of cigarettes every day.

I am spit balling random ideas
On a blank screen,
Hoping that I strike gold
And write something beautiful.
But I can't,
Or mostly am not willing to.

Writing for me involves emotions,
My poetry is my emotions in the form of flesh,
Breathed life into by the blood of my inner self,
That I now lock away behind closed doors,
The keys to which I don't want to look for anymore.

My emotions,
Require me to feel,
And I don't want to feel,
When I am feeling,
I am mostly crying;
When I am feeling,
I am mostly imagining the people around me dying.

The people around me die in my dreams,
And then they come back to me inside dreams within those dreams,
And their accusing finger points at me as the reason for their eternal damnation.

I am not who I used to be,
Music no longer has the ability to make me feel,
I no longer cry at the thought of what I've lost,
I only lose myself in the regret of having things which I can some day lose.

All my emotions,
Are on a piece of paper,
They are personal,
But I will probably show it to people,
Because I know they don't care enough to judge that I put myself out there,
To be judged by them.

Random thoughts,
Random music,
Random existence.