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.