223
My Body
I'm uncomfortable,
out of shape.
Old, or maybe just tired
Every moment is a battle against the brain.
Some days my enemy is the mirror
knowing that my scars are from old hatreds,
a twinge of pain resides deep in my chest
I make Joe sick sometimes, but never ill with sickness
I don't fit into clothes right, or move gracefully
I make up for my sorry shape through smarts
and silliness, sometimes symbolism.
I am a relic of Joe's past, alien to his consciousness
I fight him every day
I fight my body, my inner self esteem everyday.
Somewhere though, beneath self-loathing
I've found strength and hope
Something to fight for.
Arrogant
The way the air feels bitter,
Always still, silent, stagnant
Reminds me of the thigns you are
and all the reasons I need out
What bitterness? The sweet tang of grudge
hidden behind youur desire for "abstract art"
The avant garde is another pointless expression
What has you the way you are, needing a way out?
I stopped paying attention. The things you say are like your art:
"Seemingly arbitrary and meaningless."
Your will to have your bitterness is encroaching,
stifling.
True art, not your art, not a way out
Maybe it's too far away to find.
maybe it's time to say goodbye, to take my way out
To leave this bitterness solemnly, and completely behind.
End Post
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment