I’m afraid that I’ll become like them
an empty shell of who I am
and cannot be without the world’s permission.
I know that it’s a fallacy and there’s really
nothing stopping me but fear
and dumb ideas about this paradise.
The oasis is an empty bar with just
a single patron eating chips
without a second glass of beer.
I don’t want to be here,
thinks the bartender tired from
the rush that just fell out the door
while screaming how they only
wanted more because there never was
enough to go around.
We like to leave a mess out
after the important stuff is dealt with
like the papers in the metal box
that waves at you and everyone who sees it.
The strongest stuff is like a potion
that can sink you through the floor
if you aren’t careful.
That’s sometimes where I’d like to be,
lying there caught underneath
and looking up at everything I’m missing.
Though I’m pretty sure there’s nothing
missing me.
Take apart the radio while you watch
a stupid TV show where people
look like morons just for money.
Inside you’ll likely never find
the songs that you were looking for,
but more than that is everything
you’ve lost in just the rage of deconstruction.
It’s all the same at every level
like the floors of some hotel you
can barely remember sleeping in,
but when you wake up in the morning
you are cold.
Teleporting Typewriter 