And so… If I could really write.

If I could really write,
I whine,
Then I might have lived my life differently,
And that’s an uncomfortable damned equation,
Somewhere – I live in shame,
And suffer, as we do, trying hard
To avoid the pain,
Though mostly, my dumb solutions
Only drive it in deeper, like a Tick
At the end of a cigarette.

It’s all been too easy,
Means nothing,
Band-Aids
And sickness
And that,
Were it not that I am some beast,
I would be dead,
Like the runt of some litter.
But when they all go home
To pay their bills behind
Moats and castles,
I crawl back into my cardboard
Shelter and library shelves
Of bookmarked,
Well intentioned,
Half-carved invalid,
To masturbate and hide.