181117A
-----------
It could be worse.
You could be wanting to kill
your cell mate,
in solitary confinement,
so that you have some time alone.
Driven to imagining
what to really do with it all,
including that snake,
that hides in a trouser leg,
as if it has found a home.
It is dark much too early,
and all you feel like doing
is avoiding morning,
to get away from everything
that has become too late.
You wander away
without leave,
becoming missing listed,
from your roster,
being left staring into space.
You can burn yourself
on the credits rolling past,
as readily as on the stars
that poke holes into the night
wherever it will hurt the most.
You wonder who bottled up
all of that joy,
to hide it away from you
in some damp and distant hole
that has nothing to do with you.
The numbers were erased,
from the shredded pages,
that they then incinerated.
No one showed up,
and no one remembered.
You sit there
wondering what went wrong,
finding no one to tell you
who really knows anything
as to what to do about it all.
It has gone so cold,
there is no trail left,
and no one follows any of that,
having long ago left you
in a maze of worthless clues.
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181117B
-----------
Spring loaded,
and pushed in too hard,
something comes loose
somewhere inside,
and leaves you,
merely ratting around.
Bits and pieces,
no one cares about,
that you shuffle and shake
trying to find meaning in it,
as to what it was about
and where it all went.
If there was an answer,
it was not the one you found.
Another superseded design,
rendered obsolete,
no longer serviceable,
always being replaced.
Slaughterhouse impression
on your impressionable mind,
of believed too much,
too far, and too wide,
about what anything brings you,
while others make a killing.
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181117C
------------
Loneliest times I ever knew.
Nothing I really want to say,
and nothing I really want to do
with all that loneliness.
Seems everyone I get to know
is there to make me feel lonelier,
than I ever was before
with all that loneliness.
All it ever seems to do
is try to tell me everything I missed,
that makes me feel much lonelier
with all that loneliness.
Loneliest days, and lonely nights,
dreaming alone about loneliness,
where everything is always lonely
with all that loneliness.
Nothing I can really do,
about all that cruel loneliness,
that teases and plays
with all that loneliness.
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181117D
-----------
Feeling really done,
and nowhere near
to being half way in
to anything feeling right.
Must be something to it,
that I missed out on,
glossed over,
chanced to overlook.
Go back over it,
and it all seems the same,
offering nothing new,
or anything better.
Could crawl right out
of this skin I am in,
if it would help get away,
from feeling pinned.
Beginning to imagine
parties that never happen,
leaving only the ritual gestures
of table settings.
Breaking bread
is becoming too difficult.
Cannot stand monastic silence
descending onto eternity.
Waiting for better times,
and what might pass as something
of that sense of opportunity
that life causes one to crave.
They only laugh at you
if you ask them,
and all you get are lies,
in exchange for your truth.
A bad bargain
even at the best of times,
and near fatal at the worst.
Bag it all and throw it out
to wait by the curb.
Feeling too done in,
and too done by the trade,
to believe anything more
of anything that can be said.
Worthless marginal emotions
and rubber band hopes.
It all dissipates in a moment,
of wiped off the screen.
Wondering about insignificance
being so much luckier.
They seem to have Santa Claus
working very hard for them.
Tricked into the empty idea
that you really can start over,
from where you began
to be left out.
----------------
181117E
-----------
Sometimes it seems to be,
the way it really is,
and everything cut loose,
from any connection
with anything else.
The pieces you were given
no longer go together as anything,
having become random bits
from various pointless puzzles
where nothing fits.
No one will play your game,
and no one will let you play their game,
so you are forced to wander off
with nowhere to really go
but definitely going there.
A plummet into empty space,
on the end of a severed umbilical,
that leaves you tumbling
in the vastness of nothing,
merging dark into darkness.
Tyrants and evil clowns
are better remembered,
and with greater affection.
That is how the world turns,
into graphic novel ink blots.
You keep hoping for rescue,
but know it will come too late
to make any real difference.
That will be by arrangement
same as everything else.
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