The Sock-Monkey As Alone

I am Feeling like I am already dead I want to know, why? is there no hope that this life will improve or is it a posture? or worse   can       I         not            face the                  sincerity The unironic bleakness of trying to be honest To myself for once This isn't the time for rhyme and meter whatever time it is it is close to midnight The glow from the screen of my laptop as I type honesty is respecting your time without it becoming the business of being a door-to-door salesman of framing every indignity I have seen this week betrayal, coercion, and goodbyes of being blamed     and threatened without even knowing why I keep telling myself The impossible task of this poem Is being interesting but sane

the burden in my hand Wishing I could start, anew I know it's raining again yet, without an answer I feel the need         to express             some consolation prize

The gentle cliches like rain on the pavement The clinging of truth to tired metaphors like vines growing on a lattice Though in reverse I thought I reached a point... where I could let go... I have a practice: I call it depression. I sleep a whole bunch I eat to much and I try to not do what defines me   I  think I will continue for some time unable to talk about what I am going through   It's the nature of the fire to consume what keeps it alive.    

(Headlights in the dark) In the near dark Right before me Slowly stalking Forward No other lights on in this Backroad but those headlights A Window rolls down ...anxious I wait... And older man Glaring in my face He screams a banshees holler ...It would curdle milk Pedal to the floor he roars off Laughing I dont know where I am going after this But still I continued my search Trapped in the old poem Dreading the long walk home Dreading having nothing to say

(Little miss Sunrise) She is  bundled up  against single digit Temperatures The shovel  isn't getting the job done Returning now With a crowbar in hand Like a horror film She deals with the ice With heavy swings Lifted over her head (arms raised high) Chunk! chunk! chunk! The ice cracks Her nearly numb hands Can feel  her bones Like an X ray "I hope the neighbors didnt see that" She says to no one She starts her car Ready to start the day And get to work

No Love is lost for the end is near What we lose will make things clear "Contaminate memes With your 8 bit dreams" He sing's but no one's there to hear

                                          "To start with, here is a list of things I hate." -Tim Rogers.   I based my life on a lie, but the reality is there is a new mode of expression... It is irony through irony as sincerity or as it used to be called sarcasm.   Tim Rogers was my hero who I stalked (I didn't actualy stalk him I @ mention him four or five times on Twitter). then one day after a spree of @ mentions he @ mentioned me back, with a napalm bomb of reality, just the two-letter word "hi" and I was destroyed.   The important thing here isn't that Tim Rogers owned me (which he did!) it is that for some reason this articulate funny man brings out the inner troll in internet losers like me in a way that is embarrassing to the species.   It is like he inspires children to write a letter to Santa Clause and not ask for anything. His writing is rambling indirect and sometimes a blinding light to the rest of game journalism, almost as i