191117A
-----------
Wasting away,
time stretches and expands,
to unbearable proportions.
Seems to take forever
and a day,
for a decision to be made.
Caught up in traffic,
to getting nowhere,
in a stop and go simulation.
It resembles being alive,
stimulated by those electrodes
pin pointing your desires.
Whatever the drug is
it isn't really working,
the way it is supposed to do.
What to really do
when nothing seems to take you,
anywhere you want to be.
Gone brittle,
in the severity of weathering,
it seems to be crumbling away.
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191117B
-----------
Part of you wants to sleep,
to stop the poetry
from bleeding out.
Tourniquet of night
wrapped around your veins
to halt that vile flow of words.
The desire to get away,
without losing any more
than you have already lost.
Bed feels like an open coffin
that your dreams parade past,
paying last respects.
Tired of the same old game
where nothing seems to change,
outside repeatedly futile meetings.
Careful to say nothing,
but sometimes drop a subtle hint
that you might know.
Everyone who enchants you
is only another lock
to which you have no actual key.
If you could only seize control
of those pain thresholds,
you could turn the dials to high.
That might bring some changes,
in the social atmosphere,
breaking down those barriers.
Too much affliction,
and there is never any cure,
for kept waiting in lines.
Nothing really satisfying
being achieved by that,
despite ritual participation.
Swallowed in the jaws,
before anything opens,
where you hoped to be in on it.
Tight squeeze through advertising
to carried along in a flood of desire,
while collecting magic cookies.
The statistical incidence
of how long you happen to pause
in your futile search for meaning.
It all happens behind the scenes,
and another disappointment
always waiting in the wings.
You wanted to believe
that you had found someone
to whom you actually matter.
Where are those mythical lives
that make you want to live,
so far away from it all.
No acceptable invitations,
and no one you can actually invite,
that makes any difference.
You go through the mail,
sorting the advertising from the bills,
that seem to buy you some time.
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191117C
------------
Don't know the one for me,
and always up against
all that simply passing through.
Not the place to stay,
for more than a fleeting word.
Needing to be moving on,
before something happens
the way it sometimes does.
I read them the warning labels,
recite the riot act,
and keep an escape route in mind.
Not wanting to remain,
balanced on a sharp edge
of what I cannot share.
They seem far too normal,
and I feel I have to get away.
There are do not disturb signs
hanging from their eyes.
Anticipated lists of demands
that there is no consenting to,
nullifies the possibility
as to any real agreement,
leading to reward points
actually being scored.
That boxed in feeling,
of tight little spaces,
the way mice live
short, frenzied, desperate lives
confined to narrow places.
It is all too small,
and happens too many times
for me to ever feel comfortable.
Dulled down moments
trying not to think about it.
Measure up a scene,
hoping to discover the right madness,
among the mass produced
made to wanting the same thing
that all the others seem to want,
making me want to get away.
How to actually get away,
overwhelms any other obsessions,
that might have luckily fixated
on tasteless and insipid options.
Left to wandering the maze
for the sake of wandering the maze,
having lost all remaining faith
as to finding a tolerable exit.
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191117D
-----------
Finding there is no actual way
to effectively restart,
start fresh, and start over
as if from the very beginning again,
despite being pushed back
to long before any real start,
and no one letting you go forward.
Feels like a fatal slam
driven straight into a wall,
and seeing your lights go out,
in that blinding instant,
where you realize what went wrong
but have no way to turn around
to save something of yourself.
You want to drag your broken parts,
out from the totalled wreckage,
to somewhere where they can be safe,
no longer stared at,
and no longer whispered about.
Pull down the shutters,
and hide your mess from prying eyes.
It is all about the empty places
that you cannot possibly fill,
with a lack of any meaningful response.
You start to envy the ghosts
that haunt graveyards,
for having more of a chance,
at finding where they belong.
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191117E
-----------
Comes a point
where the disbelief grows so large
that it overwhelms anything
of going through the motions
as if they are opening possibilities.
The truth is simply too evident,
that you were a mistake
that someone else made,
right from the very beginning,
and will eventually wear out.
Worn out things
are simply disposed of,
despite all that scratching at walls,
to leave some marks there,
that pretend at being valued.
That is what tends to happen
when the numbers you find
do not lead to a good time.
Makes it seem a stone's throw
from the bitter end.
You spin your own wheels,
trying to turn something around,
but gaining no momentum.
You know it is wearing you down
into far too much of nothing.
You no longer know what you need,
or where to ever find it.
You are too wrapped up
in being tossed away
in favour of hostile competition.
The ticket you thought you had
has exploded,
cutting you down,
and there is no one left
to scrape you off that floor.
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