ORPHANED

IN THESE SHATTERED SCRIBBLES

THAT A STRANGE HAND WRITES

ON AN ALIEN PAPER,

IN THE FRAGMENTED MADNESS

THAT DEFIES ALL BOUNDARIES AND FIXITIES,

IN THE WILDERNESS OF THOUGHT

THAT INCESSANTLY RETRERATES ITSELF,

IN A TORMENTED BRAIN,

IN A RUBBISH DUMP,

WHERE ALL THE GARBAGE

WEARS A UNIFORM LABEL OF SELF PITY,

A SHATTERED SICK SOUL

LETS OF PAROXYSMS OF FEAR.

TEARS EASE THE PAIN.

BUT WHEN THERE ARE NO TEARS INSIDE

UNCRIED AND UN-CRYABLE: WHAT THEN?

THE HAND THAT MOVES THE PEN

IN WORDS MOCKS ITSELF.

THE WOULD BE POET SPITTING OUT

BITS OF HUMAN DUNG ON VIRGIN WHITE PAPER.

THE SEARCH FOR MEANING IS PERHAPS

THE MOST MEANINGLESS OF ALL.

WHEN THE BEAUTY OF THE MOMENT,

AND THE JOY OF NOW

IS STRAIGHTJACKETED INTO

CONFORMING WITH THE MUSTY

COLLECTIONS OF YESTERDAY,

AND THE RULES THEY LEAVE BEHIND,

IN THE SULLEN DISGRUNTLED MIND.

ON CHRISTMAS DAY SOMETHING DIED WITHIN ME!

THOUGHT HAS NO EPITAPH, NO GRAVE

BECAUSE IT LEAVES NOTHING BEHIND.

SANTA CLAUS TOOK IT AWAY-

WITH RUDOLF IN A STOCKING.

HE EVEN SAID IT WAS TO HEAVY,

AND HE’D RATHER NOT CARRY IT.

BUT I TOLD HIM THAT SINCE I DID NOT TAKE A PRESENT

HE WAS HONOUR BOUND TO TAKE MINE.

HE AGREED.

SO A NEW YEAR DAWNS,

A NEW MILLINEUM – ANEW.

ALL THE TINSEL WRAPPINGS

AND GUILT AND GILDED EDGES

HAVE LEFT WITH SANTA.

MAYBE BEING HUMAN – I WILL TRY,

BY NEXT CHRISTMAS

TO HAVE ANOTHER PRESENT FOR SANTA.

SOMETHING I WILL COLLECT CAREFULLY.

UNTIL I REALISE THAT ALL COLLECTIONS

BE IT ON ANY LEVEL

BREEDS NOT ONLY CONTEMPT FOR ONESELF,

STAGANATION, DESPAIR AND ALIENATION.

SINCE THE PAST IS BUT A PHANTOM

AND THE FUTURE A FIGMENT,

NEW AND OLD YEARS COME AND GO

TO VERY MUCH THE SAME THING.

"I KNOW WHAT I AM GOING TO SEND AWAY

WITH SANTA NEXT CHRISTMAS –MYSELF"

~ Lonely Being ~

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