PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Where is the sense in aid that's requested -
my pleas will go unheeded and I won't be any worse off.
I'm asking for attention, or paltry recognition;
but I've done nothing to deserve it, and it doesn't come.
I seek on endless intervals the object of my wants,
but I've come to realize my own flaws, my detritus of self
and I forgive the world for not yielding to me
or spoiling me further by bringing me good fortune.
But wouldn't it be nice to share this album, these words,
these minor things I love and hold close, with someone
who cares enough to pay attention - to show interest -
to listen to me speak and not interject with an insult,
a statement that says "I do not understand" or even
just a blank expression as they travel far away.
Happiness is no concern of the world, no concern of life,
and no commodity which lies in some secret reserve.
Contentment is reached and enlightening, but as it stands,
the crossing, fraying wires in my head keep me at bay
and lucid in my misery, accustomed to it as I've become.
These things that I seek have shallows and depths,
yet are swept abroad and asunder, as something so other
that cannot be retrieved or found. Apparently,
it must be given - not to those who deserve it, no;
but to those who have the most to offer.
The world has shown me that I have little to offer,
and so I dream of death as a release
from a world that I do understand, do not care for,
never asked for and will never be able to truly embrace.
Sleep is the closest proximity to absolute nothing,
and so I will seek my bed, earlier each evening,
until something stirs me from this place, these hangings;
this swirling ball of flak that I've come to hate so much.