Recitement Resurgitation

In my lonely room it's always night, or turning into night. And night, it seems, always comes alone. I race home to be there. If not sitting on the couch with strangers, then alone in my room. Isolated.

We- me and the night- sit with our backs to each other, but can't pretend not to feel it:

"There's always a chill in here."

"Where has everyone gone?"

"What if this never ends?"

"Where is everyone right now?" I wonder out loud, muttering, half-sitting and half-squatting.

These fingers of mine smash down on the keys. This night makes words come out of the screen.

The music keeps them coming too... that and the smoke.

The smoke wraps me up in a warm blanket of forgetful night, equalizing the distractions.

Now I'm thinking, "I alienate everyone around me." A skill I didn't realize I was honing.

When visiting people, I notice them keeping me in quarantine. Am I leaking something from every opening, every pore?

They see right through it, though. See through all the interference that I'm running.

See that I'm toxic to their lives, their families, their relationships, their whole set-ups and situations. Lethal to their structures, intentionally or otherwise.

I come in with my blankness, my not knowing, and erase everything. Suck it up, shake it all around, and dump it right back in their laps.

Regurgitating them all over them; distending their reflections in their very own mirrors.

"What is that?!" I say out loud, but really I'm indignant with myself; sick of this game already.

I know they didn't ask for that- they didn't want it, and weren't looking for it.

I get so tired of going through this.

Of sleepwalking toward another unpleasant ending, like the same old show I've watched a thousand times.

There is no relief from this.

This "this" is me.

Just me and the night, in this tiny space; the pared-down world of my dusty boxes, living piles of this and that, this cramped space.

My room at night is like a lead-lined box.

Containment, woven in and out of contentment. Complacency slumping adjacent to workable tools and credible materials.

"I'm too good at being unconscious of myself. Blindly pretending to be doing nine things while single-mindedly attacking other people like a fucking zombie. Automatic, like auto-pilot."

People responding with either fear or, more and more frequently, with boredom.

Right now, I'm exploring my feelings of separation and isolation, while alone. And I realize: I'm alone most of the time, with or without other people.

Not trying often enough to get good enough to want to try it again... and it goes 'round and 'round.

"Is this a Poem?"

It's a little bit of my trembling mind, bent back on itself.

Some tension from the middle of my back made it in here too. Pulsating soles in soft black boots can be inferred.

A dull desire for a hamburger, and the chill of another night alone in my room.

Goodnight to me.

Good Night.