Is this world an old place?
Worn out, like a t-shirt of ten years?
These streets, this sky, these trees and grass
the earth and the sewers--
How long will they last yet?
And how long, with them, will we--
we domineering creatures, hopeful but hopeless
as the id domineers us even more recklessly
than we overpower our planet...
The id, with wars and battles and politics
with arguments, dogfights, fangs bared and snarling
If we all need an enemy
If we all need something to hate
Why can it not be death, failure, obstacles, fear?
We fear these things
And the cockroaches skitter between the floorboards
But we hate each other
We hate our brothers
I hate my mother, she makes me tense and angry
Even after she has sustained me with her very own milk, from her warm breasts
(and there flares your id...)
I swear,
Now she tries to control me even as she would have picked me up as a baby
No, don't touch the stove, it's hot! Here, come and eat this honey, it's sweet
My hands are cold, my head stuffed too full, my spine is bent and aching
My dogs bark, I'm apathetic; the sound seems hollow, echoing off a cold concrete patio
cold: the patio, my hands, and the dying world
We're *bleep*ed
Politics, ha! (a dry bark) You might as well listen to the gulls at the beach,
on a cold day, when the air above the water is foggy, thin, and grey
But hey, what do you expect from me right now--I'm sick, my fourth cold in six months
The sun is setting, throwing an orange light on the treetops across the street
brown with red budding everywhere, and yet with such a dismal feel
The cold snow is melting all around, but the grass beneath is brown and yellow
brick houses
a sky littered with grey clouds, a yellow tint around their
edges, with a few rough patches of pale, faint blue in between--not rich like in the summer
This is spring?
Well, I suppose it is only February, what should I expect...
I have to hold on a little longer
to see if spring will come again or not.
