The Subjective Irony of Passing Now A Bit Later/ Since She is Gone
A sweet song of self-pity, drawn from the pages of Life. A bad, very bad poem
How many many hours
might it take for "now" to
such time "take it's toll".
...it's "pound of flesh"?
I'm way too old to think this way, or,
for-a-fact, any which way.
I'm way too old to dream in such
a manner as to hold back the time.
"Life" went south, trying to adapt to climate change
as a result of home-made suicide dreams. Will I be allowed
to stay for the show? Will I allow my'Self to stay for the show?
Take me down, and burn what's left.. Since She is gone,
I canno live wit my'Self. Since She is gone,
i've lost everything I thought I mighta been.
Since she is gone,
All that's left is a drunk in a parking-lot, taking a nap, but being
"probable cause" none'the'less, for a stumble-bum perp-walk'&
a night spent naked in lock'up humiliation...
All that's left is a heart that don't work so well, Fails at walking more than
50 feet. No strength to carry a laundry basket with'out
Since she's been gone......Since she's been gone.....Since she's been gone.....
all there is is stack of weary, tired sadness, not fit for human ingestion.
Not fit for any closeness or loving touch, Years, years, so many
since I thought to have meant anything
All that's left is some repellent body that once joyed with music. Now
too weak and mute to be able to sustain that Joyful Noyze.
Yes. Wee love to point fingers and say Self Pity ! Human self in any context,
is a thing to be bypassed,
to be unseen, unheard, ever.
2019dankozakpooms&poignantpixtursof the world.