Why do I force upon myself evenings of incapacitation,
drawing close my eyelids as I wade through heavy haze
and discover lonely melancholy.
So much for a lazy Sunday;
naked but for joggers that desperately need a wash,
but couldn’t make it to the pile of dirty laundry –
for what am I to wear all awhile they tumble?
So much for its relaxing effect,
when all I crave is something, someone, to excite my every nerve,
and pull tight these muscles in a passionate struggle,
to fire and fall like the waning flame,
only then to truly relax,
filling the mould,
Too early for bed, but too far gone,
drugged to a state of aimless wonderings
that yield little in the way of productivity,
and whisper of things left undone.
I push through my hair, in the way you used to,
hoping to scrape from there the excess thought
that burdens my heavy head.
Swigging but for the sake of something to do,
you’ll find me here,
deadened to invigoration;
if you’ve something to say, please, say it now,
for though shackled
and cuffed by lack of wanting,
for what it’s worth, at least,
you’d find an honest answer.