Sitting with my forehead pressed against the bars.
Listening to people talking.
I know,
they do it to waste time between breaths.
Something to do,
to fill the interminable seconds between now and the dark.
Racing each other to the end.
Simply so they don’t have to ever face,
this feeling of loss and emptiness.
This bitter wrenching lurch
which comes from looking quietly in.
An identification of the futility,
that the sense of self is a morbid joke.
Which demands we scrabble in the muck,
hoping to find significance in the abyss,
itself a created storm of dopamine and electricity.
The awareness, the creeping horror,
that if happiness is an illusion,
then is it not still happiness?
Madness is no less real to the mad.
Sounds like the same prison,
with a different view.
I am looking for someone to share a cell with,
and I have bourbon.
Drinkers with Writing Problems 