I believe that the ideal president is he (or she) who has no desire to be president, because those who seek power are the most capable of corruption.
Me, I wanted power, it’s all I wanted, because my whole life every chance I ever got to prove my worth I was kicked down. No one cared or listened to what I had to say, but why would they? I had nothing worth saying. I’m just a cliché. A poser. A freak in its own freakish reality.
That’s where it started.
I was nothing.
I had an older brother—he was something. I wanted to be like him. He had friends, girls liked him, he was good looking and popular, he was smart and interesting, he was an athlete and a straight-A student. He was what every boy who grew up in my shoes wanted to be.
So I hung out with his friends, they were mostly nice to me. Before school he and his friends met in the same exact spot every day, it was just their style. They wore the same clothes, almost as though they had their own designer. They used the same language and they spoke in the same tones and they walked in the same manner and they had the same color eyes, the same noses, the same cheekbones, the same skin tones, and I’m guessing their dicks were the same lengths and the same widths and their butts were just as equally tight when they got fucked by someone else who was initially the same in every conceivable manner.
Okay, they didn’t all look as similar as I’m depicting here, because our memories of an event are distorted by our own bias perceptions and this is just how my memories of this situation has manifested as time shaped me into an unshapely being.
I never fit. I had my own group of friends and we spent all our time stealing from people who had no business possessing the kind of power they possessed.
Because I (we) had come to realize that any power is a lie and the most powerful thing a person in my shoes could have done was, simply put, disempower them. Take away their power and what are they left with? Well, I suppose it equals the playing fields. It makes me the same as them.
A Rebel Without a Cause—did I mention I was a cliché?
I was nobody: nobody cared or listened to anything I had to say….
Then there was a day when I stood on a small, dank stage and in front of me a misguided crowd of timebomb teenagers watched me intently and they hung on to every word—every thought—ever syllable—every idea—every letter, sentence, and line that reached the tip of my tongue and exploded from my mouth, as three more fuckups wacked smacked & cracked their instruments like a symphony of pure fuckin fuck // I had power….
We wrecked bars, basements, and warehouses. We got high and drunk, snorted smoked & shot coke, downing bottles of rage and putting deception into the pipe and smoking it. We dressed the same, we thought the same, we talked the same, and we used the same swears. We were all clichés. And then there was I, at the front of the mob, leading the rally to their doom.
Or at least that’s how it felt to me. And the drugs enhanced this feeling of grandeur. Truth is, nobody gave a fuck about me or what I had to say, they just wanted to see me hurt myself, hurt someone else, break a face with my mind and shatter a bone with my thoughts, rearrange a person like a modern Picasso.
Hold on, let me take a breath so I can think…. Fuck it, I don’t need to think, I just to need to act. Act. Act like a manic whackeroo forcing backwards ideas into spineless minds that have only one line which could only be described as a force of denying the principles that fit into a mold that was cold and raw and where was I going with all this????
That was then. See, there’s a reason I don’t drink anymore. It’s simple. If you went through what I went through, you might question your own drinking too. You might think, wow, I drink too much.
I learned a lot from my life of deception denial & disillusionment…. You could say that this life of destruction gave me wisdom and knowledge—and that, I guess, is power. Knowledge is power; it gave me a voice. Wisdom is purity; it gave me something to say. I came out of the void with a renewed outlook and a unique way of conceptualizing it. I was stronger now—much stronger than the average Joe who had no idea about the depth of pain I delved into.
The depth of pain, that’s a good way to put it. Depth made me an artist and an artist has power. True power is something created through expression. Something we give ourselves.
I will never be the president of the United States of America. I will never have that kind of power. I will never be a fame hoarder; I might obtain in my life a sense of belonging, though—for that’s my conquest in life. I might be heard one day. One day my voice will be heard because I do have something to say and by God I will say it, and if that’s not enough, I will scream///