Working and reworking
The thing without any
Clear idea of what it’s
Supposed to look like.
Sure, he’s read plenty
About what needs
To be done, but none of
It makes sense.
Forging onward with
The distinct feeling
That this may not be
The path either.
Brutalized by someone
They trusted,
Living adult lives of
Overt fear and anger,
Lashing out at
Imagined adversaries,
Pretending to be strong,
Whimpering inside,
Devotedly following the
First tyrant that
Comes their way.
Trying to find some
Semblance of feeling
Behind those lifeless eyes,
But there isn’t any,
Extinguished by some
Authority figure who
Taught him that
The world is a
Very hard place and
That he should
Be harder.
She’s talking about
Something very important
To her but it’s clear
All he hears is what
He’s able to assimilate,
Which isn’t that much,
And always seems related
To some strange need to
Protect himself from
Unseen dangers.
Trying one thing
After another,
Hoping one works.
They never do,
But the other option
Is to stand still
Doing nothing,
Longing for
Different results.
Toxicity breeds
In its own universe,
Oozing unhappiness,
Agitated, bitter,
Lashing out furiously
At ever-present foes,
Bringing down with it
All that is not
Like itself.
A comforting summer
Sun envelopes me as I
Pedal up the hill,
Pines keeping me company,
Roads without sidewalks.
Turning into the driveway,
Just a few steps to the
Door where I’m greeted
With love and glee.
Inside him burns a
Fervent urge to go up to
Someone and tell them
What to do.
Unable to look at himself,
He finds ways to
Obnoxiously impose his
Insecurities on others,
Wrapping them in platitudes
About caring for humanity
Or being a moral person,
Obscuring the truth of
His twisted existence,
The need to stand
On someone’s head,
Feel safe for a moment.
