Curled between the pages of December, I grumble to myself the feeling that I'm becoming an old gray cat. Abrasive. Tired. Cranky… It happens in backseats during lunch breaks when going somewhere seems just as redundant as staying and occurs again with an aged old question from an aged old stranger. It speaks of companionship and relationships. Without the proper answer, beside the inevitable mundane "no" I search the skies for something poetic and expressive and am given only the words "fanatical, lonely".
An ode to an old gray cat.
My writing has been stifled lately with even e-mails being delayed due to my lack of words. They're in my mouth but hands are cramped instead with patent work. This post itself seems ridiculously out of place and confused. Lost in an airport of keyboards, holding up in left hand a sign that says "mediocre" and in the right, one that's scrawled "scattered"
This post is just like any other.
Only once in a while will intellect and wit find their way to me
bowing as an exit, I recite into the night
and once they are gone, it all escapes my lips
and I spend the rest of my hours fumbling
watch me catch my head in my hands
reading page twenty as I glance at twohundered.
watch me sing to county music
crying over one hundredth love song
watch me crawl back downstairs
watch me fumble forwards
"and as I wake… wait… and as I wake…"
Perhaps tomorrow will be better.
Hours of papers and tap-tap-taping
I hope tonight I won't have to watch the moon
disappear and turn red and orange
…a ball to run to
...a ball to escape to.
Do you think
it's possible that I can stop hurting everyone that's important to me?