Alive and broken in a caravan
somewhere in the north with a heavy head
both filled and drained by pop culture
and its parodies. Concealed from the
functioning whose lives glide and gather like
the clouds forming neat conclusions.
My storm is too thick, my eyes too tired,
my thoughts too split. I sometimes flee to
the hustle to touch the norm and taste the
satisfaction of a hard day’s work,
only to return. A vacuum of regrets.
To merely observe and resent from the
outside, to hide from life in fear of death
and to know so much yet achieve so little.