Sangre En las Venas

You are the cure and cause of death
You are the difference between poverty and wealth
You don’t live in the world
Yet the world lives in you
You boil. You flow, you freeze
You are the reason my home has become stale

T

here they are again. Dressed to impress, masks in place, expressionless as their existence is frozen in time. I can almost see up her dress, probably the only thing not wreaking of plastic. The abnormality of those lips, drenched in the shade of the moment: ‘pretentious parade’. I look around, in to the eyes around me. How can they be so thirsty for an object far from real? What has this world come to? Where the drool of stimulation is stemmed from a second of pleasure, instead of the potential of a shared life. Where the idea of a good time is to go out just to ‘be seen’. Approval and acknowledgement from others is food for the growing population of extraordinarily flawed egos. Screams of ‘look at me, look at me’ echo in the shadow of the dark and the brightness of day. The conversations seem empty, with wandering eyes, waiting to catch the next best thing. I check the bathrooms and witness what I’ve seen too many times now. The substance that coincidentally fuels their lives with substance. A dream-like reality only real to them. Desperate to go home, I begin to feel a sense of urgency to run and never look back. Authenticity is absent from the premises. Entitlement creates an energy disrespectful to those less fortunate. Demands asked of us as if we were not made of the same stardust. What I’m missing is a head so large that it struggles to fit through doors. What they’re missing is the purity, passion, and the humility that runs in my veins. In my eyes, with my blood, they are the less fortunate, suffering in secret behind man-made masks and collagen-curated curtains.

 

  • Los Angeles

 

 

All content is a L.A. CORONA original unless otherwise posted.

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