I'm tired.
Again.
I'm tired of being in this place,
this vacant, empty place
where it's just me
and a burnt joint, stained walls
and floors that splinter your feet when you walk.

I'm tired
of sitting here without shoes,
with filthy clothes
and a visage not even a mother can love.
I'm tired of it,

this house I guess I built
on a country road someplace
in the heart of Missouri,
surrounded by the obese.

I fear I'll have to move,
uproot everything, find
another street,
another city,
another state,
to call home
but I can't.
This house is me.

I want to die.
I want to place that gun to my head,
loaded with hollow point lead,
smooth brass,
and squeeze the trigger.

I want to burn it down.
I want to see the flames reach 300 hundred feet in the air.
I want to see the two neighbors from a mile down the road
huddle up in blankets across the street
and revel in my tragedy.
I want to see them.

I'm destitute.
Again.
Nothing to offer but a cup of water,
only the thirstiest would drink from me.

What more can I do?
What more can I be?
Was it any different when I did the right thing?
More of the same thing, I think.
Just a few more interested faces peering in, thinking
"this is a nice place, but I wouldn't want to live here."

Everyone, same thing.

"Nice place, let's find a better one."

And the slums are full of people.

I'd guess I priced myself out of the market,
but I'm giving myself away.
I can't give more than I have.
I can't pay someone to live here.

my head is splitting
from the top down.
There's pressure, an ice pick
slowly sinking, crushing
the fragile spirit I have left.

I can't be alone.
I can't be alone forever.
I can be in solitude. I prefer it at times,
but I can't be alone.

I can't have noone to care for.
I can't just care for myself.
I don't want the world.
I don't want houses and cars and abundance,
I want just what I need, nothing more,
but my needs are unfilled.
I can't be alone.

the soles of my feet are raw.
My face has the palor of a corpse.
Beneath my smile,
the flush skin,
there lives a zombie.

depraved, cursed
with a hunger that can't be filled,
doesn't know how to be.

they won't love you for who you are.
they won't love a zombie.

no one loves a corpse. No one wants a shell.
Corpses are buried.
Corpses are burned,
tossed out in the air in sadness
or in celebration depending
on the wishes of the deceased.

and those who die alone are left on the side of the street,
treated with indignity.

the homeless?
tossed out in a pine box?
would they have been eaten in an earlier day?
our peaceful world, our thriving society does them,
does us
the favor of letting us live,
but for what?

Is a life void of love worth living?
Is a life with no passion sustainable?
am I to be angry or sad or depressed because I won't die?
because I chose life? and choose it again and again despite
that it's proven itself hostile to me?

why won't I die?

maybe I still have that little silver piece,
that slice of hope,
lost up in the rafters somewhere.
maybe,
just maybe,
there's someone out there who'll move in
who'll see this beautiful house,
beset with neglect,
spurned for it's rough exterior,
overgrown weeds,
and give it life, love it.

do I have a time to expire?
Is God so cruel that he'd give me
just enough of a taste to keep going?
Is THIS LIFE?
to be dragged along the road
behind a truck for years,
hospitalized, healed,
and returned to the pavement?
Is THIS LIFE?
to be tortured with glimpses
and tastes and visions of happiness
to have them eternally shuttered up
as soon as your soul begins to be lifted?
Is it to have your legs endlessly kicked from beneath you?
to have love, peace,
regularly torn from your grasp?

what happens to those who don't learn?
Who struggle? To those Who can't make sense of things?
What happens to those who don't know
that it's their own choices that shutter them up?
What happens to those who do, but can't change?

Is it always starting from scratch?
from square one?
Over and over?

Is this life?

I know what it's like to have a warm home.
Mine has been cold for years.