The Post-Modern Genius Will Write His Obituary Like This…
It is a loneliness of a special kind
Which is born out of this opinion —
I am better
And it is true.
How surprising is it,
That a whole age can fail you?
That an era can give you no heroics to be inspired.
That your need for grandeur is so dire,
That you have to dream up your gods,
Because the real ones never existed.
When geniuses are just inflated mediocrity,
You become your own apothecary.
It may seem so romantic,
Running alone in a race for greatness.
But the truth is this —
I am great
But it’s not enough.
I wish I could forge this
Into one of those famed solitudes;
The betrayed lover of humanity
Having an affair with his alienation.
I wish I could mould this
Into an obsessive depression,
Forcing me to fry my brains in a microwave;
A death which would’ve made me immortal.
I wish I could hammer this
Into a toxic disgust —
Spitting on people’s faces
With my poetic revulsion.
But disappointment has no grandeur.
Boredom is not glamorous.
When you uphold my skull
As an idol of worship,
Know that all my artistry
Was just an attempt
To escape You.