The desperation, the pain, the humiliation, the guilt
The agony, the loneliness. The fears.
It’s a filthy faded ruined ambrosia
of once-colorful, now rotten.
Spoils of war.
I look at my children.
It’s like picking through the carcass
after an attack of a giant predator
hunting for meat on their bones
for some life left in their souls.
There is nothing
there is emptiness.
It’s programmed robots
wandering. Lifeless. Hopeless.
They no longer have the energy
to extend a finger, to reach out
to hope. To pray, to wish, to dream.
Operating on empty
Oh to set one’s guilt free
to tell the world of the misery
to share the details of this all time low
to sink into a pit, and feel okay there.
Not to worry about what the grapevine will hear
the terror of wondering, if they will even care.
How can you recoup the losses of this life
if over 30 years were spent full of strife
how does one elevate their thoughts
into positive directions, in this emotional drought.
This cesspool of irrational, of corruption
humans behaving like ignorant primates
alpha males domineering, even if they are females
controlling, power hungry, flesh eating horrors.
Abusive, button-pushers who stop at nothing
won’t yield if their dignity is at stake
will not be squeamish at the sight of your blood boiling.
For it is your blood, and not theirs.
It only validates how effective they have been,
and use it as a measure on how to continue.
Reactions only cause more pain, more earned hate.
Why bother, if silence treats you so well.
Don’t share, don’t care, don’t.
So that they won’t.
So they know not how to prepare
how to arm themselves against you
and use your ills in the highest level of warfare.
Simmer, then turn down the flame.
Throw away the key, let them hate.
They will hate anyway
dammed if you do… and if you don’t.
Don’t bother. It’s human noise, wipe it out.
They are the strangers in this foreign land.
They will never, can never. Understand.
They will never lend a hand
they never have.
They only hurt, because that is their language
they do not speak compassion. That to them, is strange.
They do not understand gentle kindness
tender pathways to emotions.
They do not understand that feelings have a sweet song
a visual to accompany it, oh so strong.
If only they can see it synthesise, without explanation
if only they can feel it, without me bringing a delegation.
It does not exist. Must not hope any longer.
Must not reveal.
For it gets logged, compartmentalized, only to be pulled back
taught, like the arrow on a bow.
To be shot back at you,
boomeranged with a scientific force
a science that I will never master.
With intensity, like they will never master me.
To bridge this divide is no longer possible.
I know. Because I’ve tried.
Most days I wonder, if I succeeded too well
if I tried too hard
and freaked them out with my learned skill
my acquired knowledge.
The guts I shouldn’t have adorned myself with.
And that they feel squeamish.
And that’s how they then behave.
Maybe. Maybe I will be the loneliest discarded piece of pie
that every existed in this messed up world.