I can't get anywhere anymore.
Can't write a word, take a step, or even inhale
without doing it with some kind of motive.
Already, this poem, or passage, or whatever it is,
isn't even for me anymore.
It's for them.
The constant audience I never have.
The ones who make me look around
when I stumble in a deserted house.
The ones who make me feel like I'm in a sitcom,
and have to make comments on the state of things
to the shadows of an empty room.
The ones who make me feel
like there's a method to this madness.
Or that its at least being documented.
The ones who let me know
I'm not alone, and never truly will be.
Here's to you, bastards.