His own set of principles
that's where he stands in the world
remembering the birthdays
of men he's never met
while they shrug it off
hoping he'll soon forget
Always seems to be there
for the ones who never care
don't recite litanies
of how life isn't fair
he's had his own share of epiphanies
over played symphonies of despair
counting forward and going backwards
one month blends into another
bleak thoughts tend to smother
this sickness tends to bleed through
missing the closeness felt with his mother
but not the whiskey fumes
or crashing cars
these emotional scars
that cast off a battered body like plumes
Where is the sign post
where he should have turned?
Where is the objectified lesson
he supposedly learned?

mathiasthom
written 8/1/10