I need to get off
my own back
and stop screaming
in my head,
but unfortunately,
it seems the only way
out of this self
imposed masochism--
madness, logically,
I simply let go
of all things
and exist,
observing,
like a sanyasin
yet I sin
until the *** runs
and my hands fumble
dreams looking for change
so I smoke them
and then desire
goes with the wind
and ashes
of my dreams past
But I can't be that,
I want my belief
in destiny back,
my hope for the future
and ambition I lack
I feel like--
wait--
I don't ******* feel,
I just want,
fulfill instinct,
and wonder where
on the timeline
it bent and broke,
time shattered
and I lost myself,
still taking up space,
like my body would know,
senses dumbed
like I've never been through this
I've been numbed
into complacency,
seeking only comfort
and safety
but nothing entertains
me, though this God
we've created
all things are possible,
but not one completes me.
Or maybe it's just the rain,
for a month now it patters
a lullaby outside
the misty mountains
are my brain's haze
from these rainy days
when all of June confused
itself with autumn
and had me looking forward
to a slow snow fall
and the oven heating the house
with the scents of childhood
with those memories
I can be whole again.
I just want to ******* feel,
unless we talk anxiety,
or numb notions od doom,
but now there's not even enough
cigarettes to touch sentimentality
like when I stood on my porch
puffing through ten
like I had it figured out
but now there's too many ways to go
and I'm laying in the road,
not dead, just covered in tracks
on my back watching the sky
for the fourth of July,
praying for a spectacle.