never felt so uncomfortablein all of this life
as this drunken woman
to tried to touch me,
I wanted to exit the situation
exit the world
this life
lost the drugs
the girl
the will to live, even
got in a fight with
my friend’s bf
he was a bitch;
I am too:
‘do you want me to stomp your throat in…?!’
‘yes, please, do it’
‘you need help, dude…’ voice, weak, whimpering: a sheep in lion’s clothing – courageous coward
Yes, I need help
But from where, from who?
Since I am no help to myself
my hands are old
a soul older than trees dying
in the cascades
I see the cracks
in the pavement like
the wrinkles and age on my hands
the cuts, scrapes
from prior fuck-ups
is this life even worth anything;
can I make something out of myself?
or am I fated to wrong turns,
late nights spent alone:
burning bridge after bridge
until the last one I cross
brings me only into the valley of Nothingness
a meadow of good intentions
festooned between the sorrow & pain
I feel dead already
maybe I am dead, already
maybe this, this is the hell
but I just cannot seem to tell…
burning bridges like the
ring of fire,
standing in the middle, warm hurt
unrelenting misery
prolonging the despondency
walking into oncoming traffic,
calmer than the sea
after storms which brewed
ill feelings darker, more solemn
than espresso in nightly abysses
from the cemetery, I
walked docilely –
bizarrely, with purpose –
into the headlights of the end
into the tunnel awaiting
the frigid waters of indifference
to soothe angst hidden,
masked in cheap smiles
& shallow glances
burning bridges like
the ring of fire until
the last one I cross
brings me to a final
plateau
denying the good
denying the pure innocent
nights spent alone
on Saturdays, sadder than
a man in isolation
on desolation row, peering
into abstruse darkness
waiting for the rain
waiting to be taken
care of until they see the shackles
the prison
of a person
derailing everything around:
a Maida’s touch of black
things corrupted with malice
tortured flowers
brittle hours
waiting to be brought
into Tomorrowland
since today’s paper is
already meaning less
than it did this morning
working for a paycheck
to be spent for others
mostly on myself, though;
work, tomorrow…
cannot think or eat
think anything that will change
these wicked ways
eat anything that will transform
lonely days spent awake, desolate
irresolute dreams
about the obsolescence of
adolescence
incandescent lanterns
break and fade
fading faster faster faster
until they all surmise
what has just happened
monstrous groan coupled with hopeless sigh…
let me out
of this cage:
still,
waiting for the rain
waiting for the rain
oh, how we wait for the rain!
Poet's Corner 