When the sun rests
and the moon takes flight
and the dawn of day fades
to dark of night
you will find me

though I strain against the hold
and tell myself that I am not alone
and convince myself that I will be fine
I will hear your haunting tone
you always find me

even before I lay to rest
and fool only myself in blunder
and pretend my bravado will hold you at bay
you lurk, waiting to tear my pride asunder
you find me, waiting not to wait

once I shut an eye
and the day rewinds like an ugly play
and the mind’s critics line up to give review
with me, already knowing what they’ll say
you are there

with the greatest voice of all my mind
and the loudest, so fur sure
and you drown out any hope I'd have
that you’d enter here no more
because you never really leave

They don't care
nobody cares about your sorrow
they say I'm sorry to hear it, or
that's too bad
but as soon as the words stop sounding they celebrate
that it is not them

they care only so much

Some might care
the first time they hear of it
empathy is as real as stone
but doesn't last nearly as long
and turns to mist that blows away quickly

they care only so long

You know it
because you do the same
after hearing it a few times you wonder
why don't they just accept their lot?
the stone becomes mist
and blows away

you only care so much, for so long
when it is your sorrow
your pain
your injustice

It hurts.  It aches.  It isn't fair.  It shouldn't have happened
they don't care

You might as well tell a wall
or sing it to a passing sparrow
or tell your dog, who will surely care longer
than any of your fellow man

You know it
because you do the same
and the mist blows away and you move on
leaving sorrow and pain it's victim to have

Bukowski had it
the writing shoots from my soul
I don't care about babies or puppies
or rhyming anymore

Give me a fat cigar
and a deep whiskey
and I can write you a sonnet
of ******* and
write you a love poem
I do not mean

I smoke
I drink
I type what comes out
and I'm tired of hearing about tulips and butterflies

If you think you've got it all figured out
but you're working a job you hate
then the only thing you've figured out
is that you don't know what to do

You don't know that life is about living
that money is necessary, but awful
and that truly living is actually about living

Do you thing the trees give half a ****?
do you think that the flowing rivers care about internet speed?
do you think that your facebook friends would show up at your funeral

If only the world would shut down
if the digital, virtual world would stop
I'd grab a number 2 pencil and write
and jab a hole in the brain of modern society

and it would bleed money
it would bleed greed
it would bleed capitalism and success

and it would die
instead of my worn out soul

trying to swim in a sea of useless information
and overload
a sea of virtual *****

and then I would truly live

I dress up and smile
and treat you like I love you

You eat it up
and feel worth

but if I met you in the street
I would could ignore you

It's only because you meet me at my job
my 9-5
that I have to act like you are worth everything

When I come to your 9-5
you have to do the same

As though we are not men and women
we play this sacred game.

If I saw you in the street
I would ignore you

But when you come to my 9-5
I must adore you

Or risk getting my pay
so I can eat and live and be

This dance of men and women
this capitalistic ritual
that makes the world turn
and kills the inner being
of those who dance
for each other

It is a lie

I put on my costume
and I go to my big box
The Manager tells me about the numbers
and how I've fallen off

He shakes the paper over my head
I need the paper to buy the things
to eat and live
and to get the things I don't need
but want

You come to my big box
without your costume on
it's your day off - and you've come to spend the papers
that your Manager gave you
when you put on your costume
and danced for the others out of costume

to buy the things
to eat and live
and to get the things you don't need
but want

and the Manager - he has his own costume
that brings in more paper than you
so he can go on the day he doesn't come to the big box
and visit, without his costume

to buy the things
to eat and live
and to get the things he doesn't need
but wants

and we all put on our costumes
and pretend to love to dance and smile
to collect the papers
that we need

to buy the things
to eat and live
and to get the things we don't need
but want

and then we die

and the man that owns the box
smiles, and counts the papers

I don't often dance this dance
of pretense and make believe
but when I do
I dance with you
to find blessed relief

I rarely put in all my effort
to find such great release
but when I do
I dance with you
until I feel relief

I don't often fall
to final rest in disbelief
but when I do
I dance with you
and find final reprieve

At last.