Nights Like These

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).