For the lonely hearts club
That has no perception of the ache
in its souls.
For the forgotten
Who have forgotten what initially forced them to be forgotten.
For the wind
That feels nothing, yet howls in pain.
For the dried eyes
That are too dusty and rotten to cry.

I have heard the stifled cheers and confused yells of your sorrow.
I have held the twitching fingers of disgust and broken them off in my anger.
I have yearned with idealistic naivety for
the Band-Aids and Neosporin.
I have longed for pots of soup and
soups of pot.
The fire has bitten my toes and preyed
upon my flesh.
I am accustomed to the unseen eyes of a pompous creator flickering in the darkness.
I see the consumption of the obscure and
the strange by plastic beauty and lust.
I have dug my fingernails deep into the relentless enemies that pound just
below my rib cage.

I have woven a life out of stories that
aren’t mine.
I have shopped for souls at the supermarket.
I have clawed at the faults and the linings
of our stars,
I have bruised the opaque ozone and
cussed at the sun.
I have slept with the throbbing fabrics
of reality
and troubled it for its secrets.
I have slipped on sperming bookshelves
and fertile libraries,
their insides impregnating ideas into wombs and thoughts into hearts.

Believe that the snarky teeth and white flesh of ignorance
have disfigured me.
Attempt to understand that not a single organism
can successfully unravel the tangled thread that loops itself tirelessly beneath
my skull.
Perceive that nothing in this spherical
metaphor of a world
can ever soothe an indistinguishable rip
or blissless tear.
Believe that the gallant distress that rains
its tapping on your hungry ears
is the prescribed music for your illness.