Wide

And once again I have not the slightest idea about what I should tell you
about where I am and who I am and how I've been going.
I have not been well, I've been ill with anger and vitriol
smoking out my intestines and leaving me with long black strings.
I have to tie them together and create beauty and calm
since you deserve nothing less.
Bizarrely I've become less preoccupied with your ever
presence in my poetry.
I am resigned, perhaps. But I don't feel that way.
It is precisely 2:24 and the night invades my nympho skull,
inducing panic and hunger, and your body is limp beside me.
I fed you wine. I fed myself liquor and I am now wide awake,
legs bent beneath my instrument, and I'm wondering,
at what point do I define this?
When it leaks into my soft life?
When it impedes my sleep, or you notice it?
You are certainly lost to the world now, gazing at blank stars
on my white wall.
I want to lean out of the window, walk down,
walk along the gravel path between black houses to the meadow
and lie down on the wet, awkward grass and look up, alone.
Partially because I've been told this is what I should be doing.
A little because I want to feel overwhelmed. I long,
I so wish to feel full and outside of life which is so compelling and so dull.
I know that I can blame nobody but myself for this cage,
and I have no clue why the bird within keeps screeching
that same old ugly song.
I wish it would hurry up and wear out its vocal chords,
and that they would hang down so that I could string them up
and make a violin to pass the time.