There is anguish in my heart, and agony too
As I sit here and brood
and see cigarettes after cigarettes after cigarettes burn
In the quest of something crude.
There is agony of what I am doing to myself ;
Blinded by smoke, crying,
and there is agony also of what I seek.
For I put up a facade, a farce
To show them who I am not
To show what I am not.
It hurts me and breaks me for what looks like living is
in its truest essence, nothing but misery – a shallow attempt to feed the sheep what isn’t hay.
To make them believe that there is something better than them that exists,
when reality is sheep and sheep only – their myriad heads flocked and huddled around some men and some women;
and more sheep who are wolves within, who wear the man’s skin – like I do and try to feast on the beliefs of their comrades and die in such beliefs with bald heads and Buddhist shirts and the sheep sing hymns when they die and that is what their life is – endless agony, endless anguish, endless misery – just the kind I bear in my heart.
For I am a wolf, just not the real one.
I am morphed – bits of this and bits of that but whole of none and it hurts me to see what I have collected in these 24 years – twigs and crowns of dried leaves and sad, fallen glory.
But I cannot stop. For like a woman said, it is like a disease. It will take me in its quest, and in which has also risen mine.
And so, even as my hand trembles and my throat hurts, the cigarettes burn.