Scribbled Thoughts

Basic or extra,

what hours will fill my days

what plans can I make

what life may I live.

Why won’t you answer?

Why is the schedule

something I can’t decide.

Poke the centre of your spine

from behind

so the jolt

runs through you

with shock and betrayal,

your whole body

refusing to relax,

trust,

being near them again.

Prepare your body

for the hope of being invaded,

transformed for another,

and see if there’s anything left

of who you are

once they decide to leave.

Work us to exhaustion

and feign shock

when we all collapse

one-by-one,

the few remaining

piled on with more responsibilities

until they bury us

so deep

no one remembers

we were ever human.

The mist of morning,

so early most people miss it.

Is that the intention?

The preference?

Or does it desperately cling

in the air,

to windows,

plants,

living and dead things

so that someone,

anyone,

will witness it

before the morning warmth

dissipates its existence.

They become God

when they start choking

the life of their victim,

they have the power

to let them live on,

for years and years,

or end their existence

in this moment.

It’s the ultimate power.

But what about driving?

Anyone could easily

swerve into the opposite lane

and crash headlong

into another,

killing you both.

Wouldn’t that make

you God, too?

Suck on the plastic,

hoping for substance

and connection,

a way to bypass pain

and hesitation

to keep living,

enjoy what you need

and remember you are wanted,

needed,

essential.

Skip life events

to enter the interesting times,

the mundane too boring

to experience

or appreciate.

Perhaps that’s why

you tend to

die young.