Coney Island


My despondency is at an all time high, the circumstances which brought me here an all time low.

Where is the reality tv producer when you need him? Someone to yell “cut” and raise the lights

I’m a slave in my own castle, lacking the self discipline to eat three meals a day, my yoga schedule sits unmarked on my calendar and I just peacefully wither away

My self doubt ebbs and flows, like a rollercoaster with no stop button, the riders just stuck on a centrifugal journey that peaks and drops with little resolve

I sit in my castle helping everyone else with their problems, resolving to carry out my situation with grace

Each season of the Kardashians wraps me like an embrace, and I resign myself to accept my listlessness as my lot in life

Someone call the producer and tell him things are getting bleak; dark; too obscure for saving 

He’s the referee of our own making and I need this ride to stop, so I can vomit in peace watching as the waves of the universe swell above me, the green screen no longer a mirage 


Published by Kristyn Potter

Founder of Left Bank Media. Editor of Left Bank Magazine. Copywriter. I write about music, and New York mostly.