Wasting Days

 

My words like poured cement are permanent.

But I’ve nothing vulnerable to say.

And so I pour…

Sliding, gulping, swallowing down phrases,

Exclamations and quotations.

I’ve nothing real to say.

How have I nothing meaningful to say?

It’s okay. I have so much meaningful to fake.

I remind myself.

But, then my words slide against my wishes.

They drip and splatter on the ground below.

And some people, they skirt around and others become stuck.

So I find many other things to pass the time,

To fill my day.

God, I’m sick of talking of the weather,

Of too much rain and missing sun?

Tired of no anger.

Tired of no tears.

I know how I sound, how I am.

Content and discontent,

Reflective and unhinged, sometimes.

My words like poured cement are permanent.

They’ve buried my feet and I’m held.

And I fear that I’m here for good.

And I worry that this is it.

And life is going to pass my by.

While I bore myself to fucking death

In a constantly routine contentment.

But there you are. A person come to rescue me.

With comments of the weather,

Of ailments and of retold tales

I say hello and good day.

And I know life is going to pass me by

While I’m busy contemplating what to say.

While I’m busy saying nothing and feeling much the same.

You see, I’ve nothing vulnerable to give.

Openness was long ago misplaced.

I’ve nothing meaningful to imitate.

I’m afraid I’m just used to wasting days.

 

 

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