What the Years Taught Me

Sometimes the Truth Hurts

I've learned

that beauty's a lie we agree to believe, 

a contract signed in sideways glances 

and rearview mirrors. 

I've learned 

age doesn't make you wise— 

just tired enough 

to stop pretending. 

The world's a stage? 

Bullshit. 

It's a back-alley poker game 

where the house always wins 

and the currency is your softest parts. 

Money ain't evil. 

Hunger is. 

And hunger wears silk suits 

while smart folks 

lick crumbs from empty palms. 

They told us gold glitters. 

Never mentioned 

how cold it sits 

in a lonely man's pocket. 

Love burns, sure— 

but so does whiskey, 

and one of them 

won't call you at 3am 

just to hear you breathing. 

The older I get, 

the more goddamn beautiful 

ordinary becomes: 

Coffee doesn’t taste like mud. 

A bus driver who waits. 

The way silence fits 

between two people 

who ain't got nothing left to prove. 

Ma called me reckless. 

Pa said "wait till you're older." 

Turns out 

growing up 

just means 

learning how much 

your parents were 

scared kids too. 

Now we broadcast our pain 

in 4K resolution, 

trade loneliness 

for likes, 

pretend connection 

is just a bandwidth away. 

But real things— 

real things grow slowly: 

Oak trees. 

Regret. 

The kind of love 

that shows up 

with soup 

when you're sick. 

So here's what matters: 

Slow down. 

Breathe. 

The finish line's a lie anyway— 

all that's real important

is how slowly you walk.