Nothing comforts me anymore
I’m a shell without a turtle
Not even a Charles Bukowski poem makes me feel
Understood.
He was just a heartless bastard who knew how to sum up
A shitty life in one line
There really isn’t anything that great about him
Just like how there really isn’t anything that great
About you.
I fall for the heartless ones I guess.
My mother is sitting outside right at this moment
But she lost the power to make me give a damn
A long time ago.
I have an old friend who lives right next door,
I suppose I could call her up,
Tell her how tired I am and how brilliant of an artist
She is.
She really is.
This sunburn doesn’t even make me flinch,
It just reminds me I am a fat tomatoe.
I guess if someone can lose the ability of being comforted
They aren’t really losing that much, really
Just a feeling one might have had from childhood
And like all things young,
It has grown old and died.
I guess I could try watching a really depressing movie,
Girl, Interrupted perhaps or
Alice In Wonderland
Or I could try having a bath, or lighting a candle
But I would end up being jealous
Of the flickering flame
Because it doesn’t have to worry about living
Tomorrow.
I don’t even dream anymore. And I’ve forgotten how to cry.
Ah, well
All dogs go to heaven, right?
