the old monk

this phase was sure to run out,
the drying up of what everyone thought
was the neverending 
fountain, of everlasting youth.

lighting the lights and the kings
that fell into buckets, pitchers from towers
ironed out, flattened, then rolled again.

these poems and stories that i write 
smile and cry about right now
will soon just be a phase where i 
met the old monk and fell 
deep into its romantic clutches;
when i thought i was aromantic
when my mother specifically told me not
to get attached to strange men. 

maybe it isn't a phase.
sometimes, the rights seem like 
they should be thrown out of the window,
the wrongs pushed off cliffs, along with the
dont knows, the maybes; the staples
of the confused, those genuine fools
who look down upon the impulsiveness of 
us idiots, who know we are idiots
unlike the fools, who live by codes and rules,
never realising they're fools because 
in the end

they will lead sitcom lives, those family shows
that maybe we all desire and aspire for.

those fools will make it,
us idiots, we'll sit in our empty apartments
looking for answers at the bottom of bottles
looking for boys at the end of a trail of smoke
with our blood splattered on the white couch.