Another Hand Through a Wall.

What are you supposed to do in moments of anguish
but to emote
to say SOMETHING brilliant
anything.

The thing is,
that's not how it works.

My heart is in the middle of my throat.
My heart.
Though I'm uncertain of it for the first time in years.
Is it there? Is it as unhealthy as I fear?
I've smoked the first cigarette in a long time.

...and it all makes me feel old.

How do you progress?
How do you become the best person that you can be?
another person lives inside?

No, not that I've seen in a long time.

I've always wanted to die first.
Not some morose, momentary lapse;
but a decision. After all,
who am I compared to them?
Let me be that selfish.
It's my skin.
My bone.

...but I care about the outcome.

Who am I compared to the same self that was there, living free,
living in my home and acting like the mother-fucker that I wanted to be?
I was something else, a force, a breath in the wild,
I was the wild, at least in the right crowd.

Now I'm screaming over middle-aged things.
I'm crying over things I'm not sad about.
I'm giving in not to feel uncomfortable.
I'm sharing the things that make up my soul but not getting the return.

Who am I?
Who am I after all of these years, with less hair and jealousy in my heart?
Why do I ache at night?
Why do I feel so much more than I want?
Why am I not in control of love and loss and money and passion and

Life.

We all secretly don't want to care-
but
some of us feel it all for the rest of us
whether we like it or not.

What a curse it is to care.