What's that, the sudden prickly push
in the night. The crawling of skin
can not even begin to describe...
What's that? The acrid bile
of dread. Why is it
I cannot shake away the all
too human stains of indecencies,
tilt my head sideways,
have it slip out my opposite ear?
I don't want I don't want today's news
caught in here.
Or the next day's, or the next.
Show me the alleyway,
any way I can escape.
All that dread noise dead noise
thundering away red blood bled.
Too much society gets in my way.
Pools drowning in my head.
Society seems too polite a word.
Can't I fly, fly high above like a great bird
to the freedom of the clouds and to a more
Not the one stuck in the mud, not the one
so many imbue. So true...we're creatures of habit.
Don't like something, then stab it.
But I'd like to bury the hatchet and the habits too.
I'd like to run away from you and you and you.
Why do the thinkers and the tinkerers do the worst of crimes
while the instinctualists only simply do do do?
Most days I'd rather be an animal.
I'm in too much. After years of failed activism,
I would rather be out of touch, out of town,
a failed stitch unraveling the loom.
Hibernation sounds to me an all too pleasing possibility.
Shutting out the noise. A hobo living underground.
Copyright July 22 2012 All Rights Reserved by The Author
Melissa A Howells
Meloo from her Tilt-a-World