first person poem
Every choice is the wrong one. Even the right one.
Not social enough. Not nearly enough.
Upon going out, the body fights it.
Everything feels the same because the sensations are
Nerve endings seem to not quite reach to the end of the
The most loving touches don't exist without sight.
The words are hard to think. Non-contextual fragments.
After a while the message falls on deafening ears.
What should be expected? Reception to repetition? Sympathy
for listlessness? Understanding of what exactly?
I can't say exactly. Only partially, incompletely,
Human desires are open sores.
I'm sore on you, all of you.
I'm so fucking lonely.
It's all communication and no connection.
No one asks the sad sap how he 'really' is. They know.
They don't want to know.
It's like how noone will read this far.
The content isn't engaging or worthy or strong enough.
What happened to not being absolutist?
It used to come easily. Well. Not so hardly.
The number one defense mechanism of the day is.
The first black American president ever.
Some redneck will assassinate him.
It's a cruel fucking world.
At least Guns n' Roses have standards.