Musings #1:
I stumble off the bus, Mail box staring off into The distance at a tree of No real importance… Well, obviously more Important than me as It seems to be more interesting Than the owner of the mail It holds so kindly in its Gullet.
Upon withdrawing the ethereal Voices from the metal fish-mouth, I walk down the drive way into The hole I dwell in, striving for A warm greeting of any kind. The tree waves airily at me… Or is it waving at the other tree Beyond me? Or maybe it’s just Swaying with the wind: it Tends to do that a lot too.
I enter the house, greet the Door by shutting it back into Its place. Shuffling forward I’m Greeted by a dog, who wants Nothing to do with me as much as The people that he smells on my Clothes. The couch looks up but Quickly nods back to sleep as I Am of no use: my parents are the ones Who will be watching his friend the TV in the corner of the room so Often at night.
My trip leads me to the bathroom, Where a toilet flushes and a sink Drains, weary of their menial tasks Of hygiene on their parts. No hellos: Just their job to finish. I walk to the Bed room, place a box who Murmurs a “here we go again” As he is slung to the bed As a royal throne for Sasha, who governs what I do in my spare time so aptly That I might as well start Paying a services bill For every word document I write.
Sasha starts up, Windows 7 Boot screen pops up into My field of vision as the Aqua/sky-blue circle spins Hypnotically at me, trying To make me forget that Sasha Likes to take her time warming up. A serene picture of Gotham Appears on the screen after a type The password to her .
Skype starts up, and human friends Start to ask questions. “Hello!” “Hola!” “How was your day?” “`Zup?” conversations are boring. Facebook pops up with comments Following the lines of “This makes No sense” “lol, wut?” “Whatevs…” Only good reply is posted as a private Message to me: “How are you? Really?”
I finish up the work, turn Sasha off, Grab a cup of tea, slip into a Bed that desperately needs cleaning From an owner who cares enough To strip it of its clothing and shove It into the open-mouthed washer The light turns off with my focus Directed on a picture that proclaims The love an ex felt for me months ago… Tears of the past flood my eyes, like always.
I wake up. I eat. I shower. I pack my bags, Sasha gets stuffed into Her grey satchel. I mosey up the drive way, Put on a fake smile for the Mail box, who knows better: He stares off into The distance again, Ignoring the musings of A young man in denial.
Gregory Gibbens · Mon Dec 13, 2010 @ 04:24am · 1 Comments |