The Path to Island Living (It's Cheaper Than You Think)

Friendship
was once plentiful
and capricious
and effortlessly-obtained.
More easily-maintained,
not readily-destroyed.
Sturdy and assumed,
monolithic in proportion,

Now disappeared.

How fickle we became,
somewhat automatically,
it would seem,
by age 30;
jaded,
old promises faded,
the delicate tickle
of time
now furiously gripping
and strangling.

Brutal recognition
demanded,
naivete stranded,
all the tiny things
become giant
in the land of
what-was-promised-to-be
older and wiser.

Perspective works in reverse
of what I'd imagined
(Why should that deceit
be any different 
from all other beliefs
turned on their ears?)

Awareness finds me
much too late;
the party is ended.
(but it will still serve
to find me home.)

It takes a season
(or three)
to respect your own
understanding,
to stop selling out
for a few laughs
and to fill your nights
with other-than-moderate
common bonds
(or, typically, none at all.)

To determine that duplicity shown
in front of you
can also be anticipated
once you depart, as well.

That gossip snakes around your name--
that those pangs in your back
are caused by more than exes' voodoo.

To no longer need
'somebody'
or
'any body'
to take you through
the night's isolation...
to make you feel complete,
belonged to,
part of,
acclaimed,
consistent,
valiant,
worthwhile,
important,
potent,
loveable,
desirable,
relevant.

Instead, to forge your own happiness,
and encourage your own brilliance;
no need for half-hearted
undercuts and overlooked slights,
bland tolerance, or hearty indifference.

Strive and perform and provide,
and the more you do,
it's expected of you;
not appreciated,
not accepted,
not approved,
not reciprocated,
not considered.
Merely bilked.

I reached a point
where my capacity
for bullshit
and my tolerance
for abuse
was all used up.
Something about 'looking
in all the wrong places.'

I needed more...
I found it.