Maybe I’m ignorant.
Maybe I’m blessed.
Maybe I have everything
and still wake up asking
why the hell I need any of this.
Perhaps I’m narcissistic
for thinking my time is important.
My minutes.
My years.
My songs.
My ridiculous little worlds.
As if the universe
has an appointment with me.
But every morning
I try to make something
that wasn’t here yesterday.
And every morning
the same old depression
gets out of bed with me.
It’s known me since I was a child.
It grew up beside me.
Changed clothes.
Changed names.
Learned new ways
to sit on my chest.
And now there are eyes everywhere.
Watching.
Measuring.
Deciding.
Not so pretty anymore.
Getting old.
Not thin enough.
Too strange.
Too loud.
Too sexual.
Too controversial.
Why would she sing about that?
Why would she paint that?
Why would anyone want
something so unpleasant
hanging on their wall?
👽
I don’t know.
Why do flowers have to be beautiful
but nightmares have to apologize?
My art was never supposed
to match your couch.
I make the things
that crawl out of me.
Sometimes they have teeth.
Sometimes they’re ugly.
Sometimes they whisper things
polite people decided
we shouldn’t say out loud.
And then I wonder
why I’m alone.
That part is almost funny.
I spend my life
refusing to fit inside the room
then wonder why nobody
saved me a chair.
But I cannot fake this.
I tried sanding down the edges.
They grew back.
I tried being easier to understand.
I got bored.
I tried imagining
what everyone might like
and couldn’t recognize myself
inside it.
So here I am.
Older.
Heavier.
Weirder.
Still making shit.
Still singing things
someone will absolutely hate.
Still putting aliens
where flowers were supposed to go.
Still turning depression into sound
because apparently
that’s what my hands know how to do.
I’ve been doing this since 1998.
Before the algorithm.
Before everybody carried
an audience in their pocket.
Before a machine could make a song
before I finished explaining
why I needed to write one.
I was already here.
Making.
Failing.
Changing.
Trying again.
So maybe nobody listens.
Fine.
Maybe three of you do.
Hello, three of you.
You have questionable taste.
I like you already.
Maybe that’s enough.
Not fame.
Not numbers.
Not convincing strangers
that I deserve their attention.
Just making something
that sounds like me
while I’m still here to make it.
I don’t need to be pretty.
I don’t need to be young.
I don’t need to be thin.
I don’t need to become pleasant
just because unpleasant women
make people uncomfortable.
I need to be real.
I need to make what I feel.
I need to look at whatever
is living inside my head
and give the fucking thing a body.
If you hate it,
keep walking.
If you love it,
come closer.
And if there are only three of you
standing there when I’m finished,
then thank you.
I made this for us.
