Wilted Hedge

I called out near the wilted hedges 

I wanted that love where it made sunsets fall into stars, 

That love where I knew Venus when I battled as Mars, 

Now, I don't want anything. 

Each flesh I see: Disgusts me. 

Each voice I hear: I mute. 

Each place: Bores me. 

Each breath is wasted. 

Each existence is a run-on sentence repeating monotony 

Pushing a pen while walking into that space 

Where life is diluted by material property. 

So, if suicide is the answer, what's stopping me? 

Hope? A running drain of bullshit 

Clambering the pitter-patter of sewer thoughts 

Triggering septic shock 

From the past in a mine moving unchained 

But still, a slave to the days washed. 

I wanted a love, 

A love that constructed a home inside myself 

Though, what it built was a wall of cinder blocks. 

A moat around my burning building. 

With nothing else as you watched, ignoring feelings. 

I felt the Philo, your phobic ego, 

Conflated to the point of being institutionalized 

Using madness to rationalize clinging to sanity, 

Your emotional dependence individualized by your isolation 

Walking away assuming independence. 

Ill communication: naive. 

But why in this pit do I sit on this shit, and think: "Why me?" 

You may not understand where these words are coming from, 

But that's okay, because... you're not me. 

That's the irony. 

Somewhere in the woods missing what was once good 

Wasting our lives at the expense of our bullshit. 

Projecting those mental images on silver screens. 

Racing through the hours on a treadmill 

Trying to burn off a thought on what was once lost 

Yet, carrying the weight on the low end. 

Yet most of us pretend: that it's a part of our daily exercise, 

While marching with the fat of our demons yet, exorcised. 

So, what do we force feed? 

Anemic by old words once digested

Now starving ourselves from the next confession 

Anorexically speaking, of course. Bulimically eating, our pulse.