The Good Life

Like the one armed bandit,

I drink for the

Intermittent reward of dissociation and self-harm–

I have the bruises and mended

Bones to prove it.

Blood stains

A rusty red.

Forgive the trite, pop-philosophy,

Masturbatory sophistry…

They say,

“If you believe,

You can achieve…”

But

“Behind every great fortune

Is a great crime…”

So they say.

Who am I but just another

Millennial,

Triggered and gaslit

By the fictions of the American Dream?

I have never desired more than I need.

So then,

What’s the point of survival mode,

When Life’s survivability is zero?

Is this an acknowledgement of futility,

Or fatalism?

Tell me, what does it mean to thrive?

How do you achieve nirvana?

What is eudaimonia?

What is the Good Life?

I have no answer.

Just hollow arguments and

Empty platitudes…