Sail Boat 2
I sit in a shattered and
broken boat I built with
my two stubs for hands.
I built it blind in the desert.
The ground cracked and scared
from the fierce fire which once burned there…
The boat, I built so dumbly. The boat I built
was full of mistakes and errors.
I slip hammering in a nail and slice flesh…
I watched you walk across the barren waste.
I filled the valley. I toppled the mountains.
I simmered the last flickering flames from the famous fire
hidden under some rock I too stupidly glanced over.
I created a pathetic salty ocean out of my pale blind eyes.
They turned into faucets of pitiful, worthless rage.
I stayed in my boat, waiting for you to return.
As you said you would.
As I knew you wouldn’t. I still waited.
I watched the water rise.
I sit at the bottom of an ocean now.
An ocean red as blood…
How far was I below all else.
It all looked so high up
so far up above the ocean floor.
My chest was heavy, I struggled to breath
It hard breathing under an ocean of liquid.
Where I sit in an old Sail Boat.
In the furious trial of error and error
(Not the aforementioned trial and error, that would
of course, result in a success at some odd point or another)
My mistakes and bouts of internal rage
stack up in droves near my trash can,
as I still find ways to fail at every task, this being
a failure to throw a sheet of white fire with blobs
of shitty black ink scribbled on them, into a trash bin.
After looking at the petty excuse I conjured up
to be my masterpiece of writing,
I melted down to this…
To shouting and screaming into the hazy computer screen
my disgust in my words,
the disgust in my lack of voice and effort.
I grumble around the house steaming mad
my ‘lid’ near blowing point.
How do I quit the torrid stream of
mopey dopey crap that has been oozing
from the printer all these years?
I must settle with this.
I grow weary.
How draining my anger makes me,
my anger with words, being unable
to fully express my emotions.
Why can you not do your job!?!
(I am at that state of depression. Throwing my own
problems from myself and blaming others,
in this instance, the english vocabulary,
or rather, my lack of one.)
Words are meant to express how one feels,
the words simply explain the feelings to others
yet no mixture of these ‘words’ does the trick.
to hell with the words. Action can be my next trick.
But the moment I type that do I soon realize
I can not do such a thing.
Abandon words like that, to leave words
out in the cold and dark all alone. No one uses them anymore anyways
correctly at least,
I must return, I must go back to them.
I quietly enter back into the filthy room
the computer glaring at me, still hurt I left her side,
but I sit back down again, for the billionth time,
I return after a short bout and stumble through the halls
As I fume my rage one way or another.
I return back to my somber waltz with words across the lines,
as we quietly search the music hall for the true answer to
defeating my ails, or at least for the time being,
a pretty girl or better yet, a warm drink to help forget,
even for just a little while.