Sad Seasons

Cynical Wordsmith

Its like you move the seasons in me
Winter to fall, summer and spring,
Everything feels lost and in between
In this world made of you and me.

I don’t understand the whether,
And know you’ll mostly love me
But it’s so hard to see the sun
Behind clouds so complete.

Where should I go
On such cloudy days
Where love seems so temperamental
And so far way.

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Novel Writing by Josh Glasson

Cynical Wordsmith

I think the only way
I’ll finish a novel
Is if I write ten concurrently,
That way as I’m writing
I’ll pick which novel
Seems most interesting
And write.

My motivational field has been barren,
As they say,
But the soil’s still good
And ideas can still grow
Amongst the weedy distractions
And the shit-smelling fertilizer.
We’ll just need some rain
and time.

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Social Media by Josh Glasson

Cynical Wordsmith

I think I’m going to delete my social media.

I’ve never seen a tweet that changed my life.
I think the most I’ve ever gotten out of one,
Was a cursory conversation about someone’s death
Or an angry rant
Or the lastest memes.
Granted, I can see it’s use
For those who need to relay information quickly,
And I’ve looked up the status
Of downed websites
As Twitter-relevant google results,
But again that’s getting absorbed
Into an impatient, twitterpated world
That used to live in celebrity magazines.

I view TikTok as a means of entertainment,
Not of interaction
And may keep it around as such.
Much like Youtube,
Content is thrown at users
Interspersed with ads, of course,
And here, again, we find some utility
As an enjoyment engine
Or a feeling of belonging to a community
If you crave that sort of thing.

Instagram has pretty pictures.
I don’t…

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Inebriated Imposter

Cynical Wordsmith

Inebriation.
The mind slows
And floats at the rim
Of an empty glass.
I love this feeling,
But I don’t need it.
It just makes me feel
Normal.
Like my thoughts
Are average.
But the back of my mind
Knows the truth.
I am different.
I am unique.
And this self inflicted stupor
Is a macabre mask
Of normality.

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Doubts

Cynical Wordsmith

There are times
I doubt myself.
Was that the right decision?
Did I consider the consequence?
I feel remorse.
I feel regret.
But the decisions are made
And I can’t seem to falter.
To doubt my decisions
Would invite doubt
Into myself
And all that I’ve done.
A brooding darkness
That lingers and asks,
“What if, kind sir?
What if?”
I’ve entertained them,
Oh yes,
But always seem to find
That certain solemn end.
This is my existence,
This is my reality.
And my doubts always come
Ten seconds too late.

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