Some days, many days and months and hours piled on top of hours . . . weighed done by it all. A stumbling thought crowds out the reason that you know, that you truly understand . . . crowds out the skinny reality and replacing it with an overweight inability to function like a normal human thing is suppose to function, bowing at the waistline, smiling all the while. Sometimes to much reality leads you into a lie that can't be denounced.
more like a dwarfing star
devoured by its own heat.
Sparrows once sat on the
window ledge and sang their
sharp, crisp songs for my ears,
my ears alone. I vaguely hear
them anymore.
Smiles, the few that I have seen
in this life seem vacant, lost and even
on the most sincere faces just space,
empty space devoid of meaning.
Is there any meaning to this,
beyond their own wooden words?
It would be nice . . . not thinking.
Be, instead, wind strolling mindlessly
through the dark green boughs
of early spring.
Or perhaps not even that.
Perhaps it would be best
to just rest, not move at all
like dirt in an open grave.
Woodie o5-14-12
(rewrites o1-3o-18)
Alien
Sometimes I feel alien. Not
quite a human being, feelingmore like a dwarfing star
devoured by its own heat.
Sparrows once sat on the
sharp, crisp songs for my ears,
my ears alone. I vaguely hear
them anymore.
Smiles, the few that I have seen
on the most sincere faces just space,
empty space devoid of meaning.
Is there any meaning to this,
this endless breathing, this existence
which no one seems to appreciate beyond their own wooden words?
It would be nice . . . not thinking.
through the dark green boughs
of early spring.
Or perhaps not even that.
to just rest, not move at all
like dirt in an open grave.
Woodie o5-14-12
(rewrites o1-3o-18)
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