second night at homewood

there is something about a freezing hotel room that kicks the brain into a strange percolation of thoughts impossible to have at home

these quasars start to blossom behind the delicate mask of trying to fit into being a human being whole being far from where you wish you were

so you spiral as the feeling of being trapped kicks in and darkness slowly colors everything as the walls press in on you as you seek escape

then the words begin to sing off key into the back of your mind in ways that make you feel uncomfortably alive in horrifying technicolor whirls

every face is a story every thought a misfire every time the air kicks in you wonder how cold you make the room until you see your breath mist

you begin talking to yourself but the voice sounds unfamiliar and invasive in the quiet of too quiet as you realize it is a bee hive of people you exist in

the news mentions crimes in places that don’t really have meaning but could be exactly where you are just outside of the decadent prison

was that a gun shot or a backfire or another sound your mind made up as you try and get a grip on the exotic brand of hushed bated breath

it’s cold as you shiver unwilling to do anything about it because there is no point in trying to circumnavigate the globe of abandonment you feel

so you tap away at another insignificant poem spat into an uncaring world that doesn’t know you aren’t home and your shoulder hurts

one more stanza and then maybe try and sleep and wake and eat more oatmeal surrounded by the traveling dead with as little will as you can muster

think about her and wish she were there to bring small solace in this big blossoming depression of being a broken cog in a machine that only destroys

2 thoughts on “second night at homewood

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