I sit & hate my life
Watching movies on the couch.
I get bit by hungry fleas,
like I'm a capri-sun pouch.
Abstracted verse is great at first,
and I've had a decent run, but
the fun's run out and the borrowed words
keep me bound to certain terms.
I've served my sentence to sentences
like a good sport would, and now
I want to perform like a person would,
not a monkey.
Rules of writing? Sure, sweetie.
Navigate that gauntlet all you want.
This is a different place and a different time.
You don't get a team of three other friends to help you win.
This is real life.
You have no friends. They all just want to eat your food,
& talk about themselves. Which is exactly what I'd do, given the opportunity. Free food, and undivided attention? I'll stand in that line. This is what happens when you open yourself up to people with bad childhoods. You get to sift through foundational fallout with a person who's never, with their honesty, captured an open ear. Maybe the last time they were honest was when they were a child.
& you just keep doing it, indulging them, over & over, because, [[gasp]], you also had a bad childhood. And as you open your heart to more people like yourself, you're increasing the odds that conversation with your kindred shall set you free. But as you're paying attention & computing, you're learning, wow, it's, just. Not true.
Congratulations to myself for all the wasted time.
Time spent on others like me, just waiting to evolve.
Living in the past and present confabulations,
trying their hardest just to maintain the pipes.