Nights like
these, I
worry about
what I chase, or think I do-
something unknown,
or known- something that
turns me
into a monster or a dog. What do I work for? What
do I stand
for? Where do I stand in relation to
any one
other person? Is there any one other person?
Nights like
these, I scribble bad poetry, without rhyme, without
thought,
just a morose, pitiful angst against what I am- dark nights that
call on me
to stay awake, dark
nights that
offer no answers. A soul, love, comradeship, acquired
luxuries,
all-so who am I? I ask the question of silent nights and
they have
no answers. Nor to noisy fans in seedy hotel rooms, nor do
the
swishing tires of the ever moving car or the blazing lights of
my laptop
monitor.
I am
nobody. I have no one.
(Interesting
hypothesis, sneers my logical self).
