Another flagellation by remorse stings my conscience…
From failure to continue the family line.
Generations of care, toil, and suffering:
ending with me.
Have I conspired at my own futility?
Did I avoid decisions that led toward adulthood?
What to do next?
Where to look for answers except inside myself.
And if I find nothing there?
Who could help someone wanting only
to want something?
Once practical difficulties recede, personality problems can dominate.
Would I try so hard at expressing contentment?
Will lines of happiness remain unwritten?
I think about playing guitar,
how even writing may get lured by the blues.
I scan, without focussing, across myriad ink marks in notebooks:
like graffiti on walls of mortality.
Am I alienated from myself, not just society?
Efforts at self-analysis indicate a desire to help.
Yet illness seems stronger than health.
Perhaps this lostness is quite gratifying
for hostile psychic elements?
in the empty house
noticing a slight glow
from another room
where an old TV set
has been left on
with sound muted
caged by glass
blizzards of electronic particles
against the screen
such pointless agitation
the off switch
and trapped light