More to Life

I don’t feel much like laughter
More like wet cement.
Like when people step on me
They’re leaving permanent prints.

Some say you must do something
To somehow feel truly real.
Yet sitting here, doing nothing
Is much more comfortable than all that.
Must be the mellowness, the sweetness
Like the bliss of emptiness.
Without the fear of hurting, at least
Not more than I do, in any event.

Maybe I’ll read the paper.
Enjoy the day’s past stories.
Who the hell died today?
Who the hell cares.
Obituaries full of nameless names.
Personal ads dripping with desperation,
Fulfilling as a one night stand.
Or listen to the news for all the glory
Of the media, to hear the lies.
To fill my head with that shit.

Maybe I’ll let my mind rot
Waste away to less than zero.
Maybe read a non-fiction book
See what I can achieve;
But the effort is so hard and heavy
Much too much like smelly old cheese.

Maybe I’ll have a bath
And get myself all wrinkly;
Walk around like an old lady
Pretend that I’m eighty.
Some say you grow wiser with age
Maybe then I could care to learn.
May just be that I’ll be full of rage
At a society that is so selfish;
One that looks only at itself
Except when it looks for someone to blame.

Should I care about the world.
Care about the little wars and crimes
Or the actions that I take?
Maybe I should die today;
Maybe I’m too late.
No one really notices the people in this place.
But still Monday will be Monday;
Tuesday will be Tuesday;
Yet nothing is ever the same.
You can’t live in the past
But you must learn from what you’ve done there.
Or so the story goes.

Dreams come along and go along
And crash and die and burn inside.
Hopes die similar deaths.
But push on little survivor;
Push on through the wind,
The rain, the Sun and the pain.
Eventually numbness becomes enormous.
Swelling up into scar tissue
The size of Texas.
So drink some red wine,
Drink some poison, read some poison
You will not die.
Death would be a blessing
So it will not happen,
Not until you actually want to live.
Then and only then will
Death come knocking.
Banging down your door.
Leaving you begging
For just a little more.