fake it ’til you make it

I just realized that I hadn’t posted anything in days. Thought I’d fix that. Kinda sorta fucked-up tired right now, but the poem is supposed to look like that, with the lack of caps and such. I think I was going for some post-modern lack-of-form. I remain unsatisfied, but I’ll do… something to it, later. Whatever. Tired. Poem.

fake it ’til you make it

i’ll fake it and fake
until i make it all make
some sort of sense

maybe there’s a god and
maybe the end of the road is
just as unattainable

the booze and the drugs
the lies and the stiff hugs
are no way to fix it

so i’ll fake it and fake
a smile a laugh a tear
just don’t touch me

you’ll shatter me i’ll break
into a dozen half-told truths or
a green glass bottle

the best way to confidence
is to fake it and fake it until
there is no doubt

i’m faking it until
i make it

© Bridget Noonan, 2009, 2011.

Hmm, I need to find new metaphors or something. The alcohol thing just isn’t doing it for me. I feel like a cliche whenever I do that. “Oh woe is me, I’m some tortured fucking soul, drinking to escape my troubled childhood” or some bullshit like that. Not judging anyone else, just feeling a little too Hemingway. I neither endorse nor condemn other people’s personal choices or life experiences before getting to know them.
And like, who am I to go all tormented artist? I’m a lower-middle class white kid from Canada- the fuck do I know about a legitimately difficult life? Got privileges comin’ out the wazoo.

Fuck, I kind of don’t want to post this, but chasing absolute perfection is equivalent to running headlong toward madness. Flaws make life interesting. Not that aspiring to greatness is a good or bad thing, precisely- it’s the decisions you make because of the desire for greatness.
Plus, don’t wanna disappoint my adoring public. LOL.

Dammit I think I just hit my second wind. Shit. Never sleep again, apparently. Stopping the brain-spew typing now in favour of staring at my ceiling for a couple hours.


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