A series
of short puffs
from a rekindled
cigarette expertly put out
on the half
reminds you of your
fastidiousness
now you feel like **** as you look
at the wreckage site
of a desk that
is your own doing
       That is what you do.

While your ego
floats like the unmelted
coffee you put in cold water
Hardly dissolvable
to anything normal
missing anything temporal
You lash out once more
waging a war
with a nation
of thoughts
You kick the furniture
to send the dust flying
       That is what you do.

You attempt to sheathe
an intricate wound
patterned on your
knuckle, as detailed as the
dystopia of your
own human agenda that
can be trivialized by just
"I haven't been myself lately"
when somebody asks
because you're afraid
they might see
you find it
                hard
          to
  belong
Slowly, the dust resorts to settle
on the bedroom floor
       And so do you.