I am sick.
With death and fate and god’s illegal use of power.
He doesn’t care.
How could he?
He barely knows. Or thinks or sees.
I live alone.
In hedges by the roadside. In forest unseen.
You see the ghost that crumbles.
Of a shallow grave.
& I am sick.
I have been defeated. Again. Only this time by a simple clock.
One that tells the time & lies.
It breaks my heart and laughs and throws it’s shitty hands up and says ’oh what? Did you seek illusion?’
& I reply in tears.
Frustrated collapse that ends in drugs.
I pity myself. & anger flows.
A ritual you will see again in time & time & time & time again.
My life you see.
Circle of doubt. Of fear. Of broken phallic illusions.
All dreams gone.
So I hold the gun against my head. I clock the hammer.
I hold my breath and pull.
God hates me. That’s all I know.
I worship death.
For who cares what resides within a shell shocked heart?
A quiet night.
Failure announced at the door. A reliable friend.
I cannot but play the song again.
For I might as well lose myself in the well of paine and angst.
& Fill the bath and drown insane.
As Night closes in and the moon walks by.
~ I am pretty shit at many things. & dreams are always defeated.
© Ed Simkins
