Resentment

There is a carnival atmosphere in
the air but all I feel is resentment
towards everybody around me who clings
to who they have as if slacking their grip
would let my bitterness swallow them whole;
the nearby shore is drowned out by the sounds
of the Spanish travelling siesta
combined with the usual outpouring
of drunken delinquency by the Irish,
a stereotype that fits so well I
almost begrudge myself for not bearing
it too, even though it would exacerbate
everything that doing nothing at all
manages to keep in balance; and when
the festival lights are dimmed one last time,
when deluded anarchy hits the streets,
my resentment still builds as I watch these
people, seemingly without a care, drawl
and stumble and cry over trivial
things made drastic by the temptress that is
alcohol who lives in oblivion,
a place that coaxes even me when I
witness freedom - disillusioned, yes, but
still freedom - in everyone else but I.