Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Under Pressure

Constant pressure. Constant pressure. You press, press, press. Sure, me. I say good morning. You billow out smoke. Psshhhhhhhh. Gonna be one of those days. I reserve myself, Since you said so, I’ll accept it I billow out smoke. Pssshhhhhhhhhhhhh. Thinking of carving out a little nook To hide, relax. But then that puts the pressure on All that thinking What about exercise? Body strain, sweat, heart slamming Purple faced, chest heaving Sounds like more stress. At least it would make me more human. What are we doing here? Fucking ourselves up, For what? We’re all dead men walking, History being made And while the world turns I sit in my box Slamming numbers and letters on various screens And trying to decode the reason For my existence. …Yes, move the decimal to the right, ...Now carry the 2. …Eureka! The answer is…eyes quivering behind black eyelids. Little fuzzy stars popping. Nothing at all.

1 comment:

  1. Sounds a bit stressful

    "An aged man is but a paltry thing,
    A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
    Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
    For every tatter in its mortal dress"

    From Sailing to Byzantium by Willima Butler Yeates