Languorous Lament

The world ticks by with every tap of the keyboard.

Time seems arbitrarily abstract when there’s nothing to Hope for.

Well, of course I have Hopes.

Hopeless Hopes.

Maybe I will never change. Maybe this idle tap of my heart will remain.

I’ll keep fondling with my knuckles and have my bones

pierce through my other hand.

My decrepit fingers shiver in space, those

scrawny, stabbing, noodle fingers.

 

I like to believe that I have Hopes,

that maybe in the future I will finally do some exercise and

purge myself of this persistent cough.

My stomach jerks and jolts, my lungs heave out gasps of air,

little whiffs of insignificance.

That this is a repeat from three weeks ago has never occurred before.

Perhaps I’m chocking myself.

They are dry coughs, those that tickle the throat

as air escapes from its prison.

 

I remember when I had Hope.

When my afternoon began with calculus problems and due diligence.

When I had the motivation to read a paper about the Nucleus Accumbens.

When I had the spirit to venture forth in romance and to

become wiser with my failure.

Now that’s the past, and here,

we are now.

My mechanical puzzles lay strewn on my table, the voices in my videos,

the vivacity of my youth,

fades away.

 

Slowly I freeze.

The ice creeps up my heart and they see it in my eyes.

My feet are always frozen to the ground.

My mind conceives of impossible dreams of escape.

It’s silent out there.

It’s silent in here.

My demons smack on the bars of my chest with

barbaric brutality.

It rages eternally, internally.

It rages as an icy fire; burning cold passions.

Screeching screams claw at my ears.

No one wants to be near a

raging storm.

 

When I dote on

Hopeless Hope, I am sorry.

I am sorry to myself,

sorry to those who think they know me,

sorry to those whom I have troubled —

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