A funeral mask,
A stone heart,
The monotone voice...
No interest
In your sports,
Or petty gossips...
"There's this terrible pain
In the diodes
Down my left side."
But, robot that I am,
I still bleed when cut,
And I can still cry
Crocodile tears!
Perhaps the bipolar meds
Have robbed me of emotions,
But at least, with this cocktail,
My brain's moving faster
Than "Slugs on Ice"...
With the number of deaths
That I seem to have dodged,
My mind gets twisted up
In a delusion
Of being a "Millenial Man".
It's silly, really,
Probably encouraged
By reading heavily in sci-fi...
I just want to be
Like other normal men,
Able to feel the feels
Without being overwhelmed;
And to express my loves and hates
Without getting ostracized...
Perhaps, in this life,
I must suffer
These extremes of attachment and aversion;
And to separate the desires from the self,
That I may learn and model
How to be a calm eye in the storms ahead...
Then, my Cyrano,
In parting parries,
Leaves me this final thought:
"Alas, Bean, no lass will you marry"
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment