Tired- A Poem For The Times

and other fun adventures

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Photo by Alice Donovan Rouse on Unsplash

I wrote the below article the other day about the Glennon Doyle/Patriarchy/Internalized Misogyny/Societal issue + Capitalism issue, and it reminded me of another piece I wrote.

Read Here

We Found The Real Enemy- Glennon Doyle

I vomited out the piece below while dealing with the absolute insanity, frustration, injustice, etc. etc. etc. of making my indie film, Fresh Kills. At the time that I wrote this, I was dealing with a distributor wanting to basically take my film and drown it in a shallow puddle in the backyard.

You know, “indie” films now — their marketing alone is $18 million — so when you realize there is no marketing budget, basically you realize it’s all so very broken.

The narrative that they want out there — gets seen.
The rest — die a quiet death.

Which is not only an awful thing for the filmmaker but for society as a whole.

You never get to see outside a limited POV of who is buying and funding the projects that make it to your screens. That dictates society, our culture, how you feel about the world, yourself, and your neighbor.

That’s a lot of power for one elite group to have, don’t you think?

Thankfully, I found writing as a way to — I don’t know — rage write — or the streets would not be safe.

It just breaks my heart to see so many amazing artists out there not getting their due because of the “status quo.”

How much fighting can you do against something that you know isn’t changing?

Which is why you just must create for yourself and yourself alone.
Fully.
Deeply.
And raw —
And trust your people will find you.

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TIRED

I’m tired.

Tired of figuring it out.

So very tired.
And I'm angry,

and I'm hopeless,

and I'm determined,

and I am...

tired.

My soul is tired.
My hair is tired.
My face is tired.
My body — is tired.

I have to learn AI now.

Not to mention Threads.

What is Threads, anyway?

There's the threads that people are putting in their face.

Yeah, well — WOMEN are putting in their face.
It’s a wire — thread wire — in their face — to keep it up.
Keep it up, from falling —

down.
Must keep the face from falling down — they say.
Like your spirits, they say.
Gratitude is the attitude, they say.
But no — threads.

The other Threads, on Instagram.
Instagram Threads- a “creator” said she has a course to teach you how to grow your Threads account to make 5 billion per month.

I suspect she may be lying

she said, “Threads, it’s like a group chat.”
Whereas Facebook is like a family reunion,

and Insta is like a cocktail party.

Can I take the cocktail and leave this party?
No, you need a hook.

With your “content.”
You have to make content and give it a hook —

it MUST have a hook.
Please make sure it has a hook.

Otherwise, you’re just screaming into the void.
Or your brand — in air quotes — your brand —

because everyone needs a brand, of course — will go nowhere.

Cunt.
I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to say that — out loud.
I just — don't understand anything anymore.
And I'm tired.
I'm fucking tired.

I come from a time when art was art,
You did your art and you created your work,
And somehow that mattered.

That someday, with hard work, would pay off.
Someday — you’d get — there.
There.

Where is there, anyway?
Does anyone have the directions?
Does it exist?

Hard work,
Grit,
Talent,
Work,
Mattered.

No, don’t be silly.

Now, I need the hook,
The look,
The Threads,
The Ozempic,
The — right —

“We are not going back,” they say.
Are you sure!?

It’s painful to see — clearly.
It's dangerous to create — freely.
To watch the chosen few get to make the thing,

while the rest of us become the algorithm’s bitch

to make us somehow relevant for 2 fucking seconds.

This invisible fucking algorithm

that lives in the cock-sucking cloud
Bestows on us the privilege of being relevant

— for MAYBE —

2 fucking seconds.

Angry? Does it matter?

Keeping up with everything — make sure it doesn’t make me bitter.
The grateful thing again, you know?

“What you focus on persists,” she said.
“The course is on sale now,” she said.

The amount of time I spend
Trying to figure shit out.

I can’t get into my account.
The wrong password — again.
The wrong email — again.
The wrong login — again.

And that password is the other password that’s connected to the password to get me in to see the rest of the passwords.

All connected to a phone that has my face on recognition
And that’s not even letting me in anymore.

My own phone doesn’t recognize me.
I don’t recognize me.

Who are you even!?
I don’t know.
I hope I figure it out — someday.

You know, that someday — that they taught you as little girls —
In that song, or was it a nursery rhyme?
Or the fairytale? Or that other lie —

“Someday my dream will come”
Or was it “Somewhere?”
Somewhere — over the...

Was it a rainbow?
Or under a tree?

All this hate is really getting to me.

Suffocate anyone that isn’t the 1 percent.
The rest has begun their quick descent.

I’m tired
Of the lies
While you criticize
And despise
Me for just wanting to be

me.

but …Free