The sports are just contrived masculinity, bottled and sold to the masses.
Possessions root me to one location making sure no one steals them, oh how I grow to resent my shackles.
I don't like anything
Nothing exists that I long for, spending night and day pondering how to obtain my prize.
Except maybe a motorcycle to get the fuck out of here.
I don't like anything
Starvation can be more pleasurable than indulgence.
Screaming rapture in the streets or bowing my head has always seemed pointless.
I don't like anything
Even our secret dance in the dark is just calculations and formulas to me now.
Pouring my "soul' onto paper has grown tiresome for once.
I don't like anything
Besides tipping the bottle back and forgetting myself.
Worrying about running out, acquiring more, keeping my body from rejecting it.
Every day I lose another piece of me as I forget who I am and become a shell of a person.
Completely removed from myself, I am the third person view of a life not being lived.
I love the progression of this piece.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Natalie. I'm glad someone reads my poetry and actually likes it.
ReplyDelete