Seeing Things.

Seeing things that aren't real.
Or maybe now they are.
Maybe it's me that isn't
completely here or there.
A chicken leg short of a picnic.
The man without his brain.
A pig without it's lipstick.
The cake caught in the rain.

Save yourselves! Don't wait for me!
We need a bigger boat.
People look, and people care
but still don't get a vote.
I have my path, the road I walk,
this life I choose to lead.
The misery and the suffering
and the intense desire to bleed.

The minutes crawl like spiders,
and insects on my skin.
I report myself as missing
and they find me, limb by limb.
I'm thrown into a bucket
and dumped on to a slab.
A jigsaw made of blood and bone
and plans I never had.

I can barely see the light right now,
I don't think I ever cared.
The fruit was withered on the vine,
the vine that wasn't there.
I'd like to rest my head just once.
Forget the things I've done.
The stupid and the selfish
and the just plain fucking dumb.

It doesn't matter anyway.
Just another anguished moan.
A whimper of frustration
for a lifetime spent alone.
An attic filled with memories
won't get me through the night.
The silent dark and fading sparks
and the loves that lost the fight.