reading time: less than a minute
Is it so selfish,
to hide,
like a newborn salamander,
basking in fresh,
moist mulch,
in a redwood desert?
Am I not a man,
to swallow my sadness,
which comes from nowhere,
holding it down like vomit,
arrogantly refusing,
to stay down,
on a night before morning?
May it be childish,
to tuck away,
my sunken face from the world,
so as not to burden those I love,
and those I do not,
from a self-sustaining pain,
prancing in the shadows of nothing?
Am I a coward
to not share an understanding
of ideals that enigmatically,
will not,
and cannot,
be understood?
Should I shrivel in this grainy horror?
Should I speak to you
or them
or maybe that someone
so they can laugh,
or sob,
or prance high on pedestals?
To know that they are well off,
or to feel the sharing of this lost,
and barren road;
a lengthy lapse to loathing.
So suck it back,
I tell myself,
night and night again,
as my love sleeps in my arms,
and loneliness taunts my incoherent,
selfish,
relentless,
and ridiculous,
reasons birthed from habit.
Feathered thoughts, crimson black,
whimper whispers,
to scurry and live,
in a dark,
imaginary corner.
I cannot further explain this.
Nor will trying help,
in anyway.
