The Frustrations of the Sad Sack
By Sir Gordy
Frustrations of the Sad Sack.
From the blows of a feisty distress I ache ,
An insane spin of pain,
Inflated of a pungent vapour
My lungs turn a mouldy grey
In the repugnant heats of my anger and regrets.
In the most tender patches,
Though my voice makes no sound,
My noisy countenance tells it all in a disturbing loudness,
I call up the innermost parts from their ease ,
Call to the deepness of subconscious ponder,
If there be any superliminal faculty to see out my salvation
From this piling debris of dead ends.
I sleep and wake
To lend late night gazes on the mirror only to ask,
Should I have done it in the blinding blackness of the breezy shadows?
Or better in the perching heat of the brightness of a million suns?
O Whatever! , would it have mattered anyway?
For every motive of mine is ripped in cold blood.
The struggle with self is bloody,
My flesh faints, my muscles slacken
I can't stand more of this losing debate.
I'm running out of steam
I've lost control,
My ego comes tumbling in an ugly splatter.
My fumbling reasoning has become ill-fated,
I think in wrong directions,
Mileages that clip me off into pits of no return.
I regret that I always have had to regret it all,
Perhaps someday not so far,
Heavens will care for my ever fresh tears,
To curse and toss my frustration to the basements of hell,
For mischief calls me by name,
But in that day I will cease from his memory
To be called by a new name ,