when

i leave myself (sometimes)



i regret myself



slowing sad bird, half dazed and drunken

what did he do?

what do i do?



a mother, a father

nailed together like coffin to lid

sealing the later regretted hopes in

like a smothering cloud of naivety



that i might be you

but i doubt it



you feel more eager, eager for pain

you feel wrong in where you try to reside



with similars, inverses

tangents and junctions and payloads



you never settle, never regret, terrorist in your own dimension



where is the output? you have nobody to hurt, so unthinking,

you blindly love whatever subdues

like a poor injured falcon

knocked from a throne, invisible in nature



shut from input like an angry wife

stormed the channels,



and suicided on a stale summer day



how shouldn't this expectation

be so fulfilled like a shepherd on a moor



and then shot, through the shoulder,

like



water

water on the poor boy's back





"pick up all of your shit!" he screamed at her.
"get all this shit out of my way and get the hell out!"

she felt suddenly unstable
a brief flash like a rotten piece of floor, buckling under her weight.
"calm down, i'm not okay but okay, just calm down" she was dazed, out of breath
he paused
he thought about it
(the course of thoughts that went through his head were honest, unexpected, briefly inspired)

and started throwing all their things at her

their trinkets,
their empty bottles,
their ashtray,
their dead flowers,
their remote control,
their souvenir shotglass,
their last meal,
their burnt candles,

their cancerous relationship,
he hurled it at her, watching her recoil in shock.
he was just so damn mad, he could just smack her

she picked up her purse
and walked out the door

she got in the car, tears coursing freely down the curves of her cheeks
and backed quickly out of the driveway,
not bothering to check and see if there was

"Wh-"
she was suddenly disposed by speed,
impact brief enough to be nearly silent,
(LOUD)
neck severed and bones shattered,
with her insignificant other all but
drunk and unaware
(didn't hear, didn't see, why should?)
feeling proud just inside the door

he had won.




what more can i do to myself

expecting better makes me worse



needing metaphors to dumb down the

undying pain of never knowing



i have no purpose.

04/25/2007

Posted on 04/25/2007
Copyright © 2025 Corey Lockaby