PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

There's no perfect match for me.

He'd have to be just as crazy as me, and I probably wouldn't want him.

I'm so confused.

I wish I could amaze you with big fancy words.

Or wow you with all my causes and concerns,

But, alas, I'm just a fat ass that watches too much T.V.



I know you're disappointed in me.

I'm disappointed in me too.

I thought I'd end up doing more, but I do mostly nothing.

And I'm getting paid for it too.

I'm supposed to be soul searching and modifying my behavior.

My soul is empty.

My behavior doesn't want to change.



I say a lot of nothing.

My Aunt is dying.

My Dad's crying.

And I'm powerless to change any of it.

My heart is on overload.

I'll barely pay rent and I'm supposed to be able to afford a divorce.



I got the FBI anti-terroism agent calling me.

I think my  phones are tapped.

But I'm crazy so those voices are probably in my head,

along with the empty echoes and the static that fades in and out.



I sit here in my computer chair that creaks under the load of my weight.  I'm playing a game that let's be anyone but me.

I like how that sounds.  I don't know when it started. The self-loathing and verbal self-flagellation is hardcoded into my brain just like my fibromyalgia pain.



Again I write a lot, but nothing concrete is said.

I should be light as a feather with how these empty sentences come pouring out of me.

I'm not into anything anymore.

I lay around in bed watching plaster ceiling swirls turn into monsters and witches.



My life has dead ended.

I slammed into a mountain.

I never was good at climbing up hills.

Ohio doesn't have enough sharp precipices to practice on.

So I grew up unprepared to scale up and over this misery.

Hell, now I am really making NO SENSE.