I am walking this walk,
Heavy foot after heavy foot,
Head downcast in shame,
Reading the passing paving stones,
Trekking along streets greyer than usual,
Fatigue weighing each limb down,
My brain raves in my skull in rebellion,
Home may or may not be on the horizon,
I feel as if I’ve ingested a brewery,
My tongue is a desert,
It’s the walk of shame,
An embarrassing escapade,
Yet this is no post-dalliance retreat,
Not the ending of a sordid tale,
Just a day in the life,
The life of a loser.
I hope these words find you honestly,
I’ve only ever wanted a quiet life,
A pastoral life,
Not an easy life,
No such farce exists,
But a serene one,
I’m a simple soul with a complex mind,
I was never a prodigy,
Not a Beethoven or Hemingway,
I was never a villain,
Not a Joker or Lecter,
I was never going to unmake the world,
I’m neither yin nor yang,
I’m just grey,
Striving to be nothing,
I just want to sit and see the world pass,
As easily as you read these words,
I just want a simple life.
Is there herd immunity to loneliness?
I find myself something of a black sheep,
Not in familial terms,
But societal ones,
I find myself overmuch grazing alone,
These ebony rags of wool grow tiresome,
I hate how they suit me,
Like this I despise my form,
The mealy stench of my visage and attitude,
The feeble and disgusting sound of my bleat,
I have played the misanthropic loner for long enough,
I’d much rather be part of that herd,
Their grass looks far greener,
I don’t want to be me,
Can I instead be one of them?
I’m a rotten clown,
All maggots and red noses,
I’m no good at making them laugh,
At least not in sincerity,
I’m a pitiable jester,
All rags and body odour,
Dressed up and ready to dance,
But the stands remain empty,
They tell me I need fibre in my diet,
It’s good for the gut they say,
But why care about their wellbeing,
When I’m led to hate my own guts?
Self hate is an artform,
And I’m something of a critic.
No my friend,
That is not what rock bottom is,
My soul dissents,
Rock bottom is not crying and screaming,
Not tearing down the walls,
Rock bottom is laying prone at night,
Thinking instead of sleeping,
A prison cell only we can see,
Rock bottom is staring stony-faced at work,
Into the face of a furious Karen,
And not hearing a single squawk,
Rock bottom is sitting in your underwear at 2am,
Stuffing your face full of treacle tart,
And not enjoying any of it,
Rock bottom is not aesthetically pleasing,
Not a work of art,
It is not convenient,
It is suffering,
It is purgatory.
WorldofHarley 