Unfree

The odds are all against me.

I cannot change them.

I cannot change me.

And the patterns set inside of me

                   will stay with me for the rest of time.

                                                                        Plotting against me.

                                                                        Conspiring against my sanity.

For all this,

            I cry for me,

            I pity me.

            I pity me.

I have absolutely no way to console me.

So I don’t even try.

I neglect me.

I let me wither… slowly.

I let me down.

I let me die of inertia.

I let me drown...

                        in loneliness,

                            and misery.

I give me up totally

                 to God’s necrophagic appetite.

I give up the holy fight

                        to guard my sanity.

And I set me,

                 wholly,

                     completely…

                                           unfree.

August 1996