Earthly Own

Narrator Of Hypocrisy

  I do a lot of wishing on ancient wells
of penniless men and dried up answers.
But forget that poetic crap. I don't know
what I want to say anymore. Redundancy.
I get mixed signals. Do this or Be that.
Why can't they see I'm slowly drying out?
The writer of starvation is no longer whet
because of the constant drive to
be alike alike alike alike alike alike alike
them.

Everyday when I awake, I puncture
my mental state to the highest degree.
I dread the noise invading my conundrums,
the inhumanly stretched body parts that I
shove into pants that are too small.
Brushing away last night's cheap dinner
with nimble fingers stained from homework.
I pack up, drive up, say wtf, write up, walk off
my future as a student when I get to
the stranger's house.

Once there, the pelt of endless demands
comes to a sweet and soundless end of ands.
I am finally where everything is what it is and
all that is left are touch, feel, taste, breathe, be.
I don't think I can finish my thoughts here,
so I shall leave it up to you.
I am too busy living and loving with
a stranger that appreciates the zone of blank
rings and the written word that releases
the chains around unopened eyes