Briar

Welcome home voice.
Why would I speak I wondered.
Why when I know you will talk.
To listen and look in wonder of my feelings.
Running gushing words. Tell all.
Tarry and tatter. Teetering mildew. Mild thoughts.
Speak and speak and frantic rush.
Injustice chill. Your benchmark rots with wilting cherry.
Over and over. I sit and avoid eye contact.
Try truly. If you listened then…
eye contact. You do that. I am tired, destroyed.
Incapable. I recognize now.
Agate. no meaning.
Tiring. Restful. Running, unquestioning:
Who’s this? Where are my friends, who is fun. What’s this? what’s this. What’s this? And all is lack or luck or desire. bump and stumble and feel reeling tumbling pull of gravity and sexual desire to go out. Do conquer nothing. Passive tired silence of “hey I got that done” Whoop-dee-friggin-doo.

And dinner and cake and your own blah. Why purchase something you don’t like but others do. So that you can go on about it? Hypocrisy. Stagnant direction. Shit on the floors and tea in the trees. Welcome home. Cut down the ever green. replace it with your mistrust.

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