Fake.

I play music for myself. Writing songs takes all the sand out of my head and makes me feel real. But I can't escape feeling like a fake.

I try to be honest with my music. None of that "I'm sad because I'm not pretty enough for you" bullshit.

My lyrics and my songs translate my raw human experiences and emotions.

But still, I am followed around by my own shadow holding onto my heels saying "Face it, Patience, you're just a fake."

I taught myself guitar. I don't even know most of the chords I am playing. I remember them by how they sound. I feel insignificant playing with other musicians.

E minor 7th? Uhh...Yeah. That's a great chord. I love that one.

What am I playing? Uh...It's the chord that sounds like Sunday mornings. You know? That one.

This is how my brain works. I'm not a real musician at all.

My songs are never good enough. The chords become redundant, the purpose unclear.

I don't play enough. I should be booking gigs every weekend. I should be meeting people. I should be getting a full band together. But I don't.

Because I'm a fake.

Flaws to Fight (Rough)

Meu Pai Com Olhos Verdes

My father is

Warm

Dark

Madeira in his blood, in his

Eyes

Green like pine, like

Chá verde.

 

He used to

Tap his Vic Furth drumsticks

On my knees

And sing

“Goodnight” to me

By The Beatles when I was

Falling asleep.

 

My father would

Dance with me in the kitchen

After ballet, or on

Sunday mornings

My father would

Crack open the door to my room

The light leaking through

And sit on my bed.

He would lean down and

Put his arms around me

Humming

“Good night

Sleep tight”

Strangers’ cigarettes

The bitter backstage smell

And his musty jacket

Swimming into my

Dreams.