Existing out of sight.
Another month goes by,
the window calls for a wipe.
And the desk, and the books
and everything else all at once.
Does the effort see a return,
of each wipe, followed by a sigh.
And a heartache,
a mind that's seen information to the brink,
and as it overflows, a couple times.
Into the nose, back onto the throat
from there on, causing a familiar pain to return, one from when I was a child.
And to be locked in a prison of a house,
in where I wished any semblance of control,
to imprison someone, be a prisoner
like my self, under my humility and help.
By every other year, the lock rusted,
and fell off, a few years ago.
But the bird had been tamed alas,
to lock themselves again if the lock came undone.
And the last time away from the cage,
a year ago that was.
From the open skies again
calls the waterfall that I visited
or one the year before,
making promises that I didn't live on terms with.
Nothing really happens, no one really cares afterall,
to read, to listen, to talk, to be,
a mere slogan of what they preach.
And I'm much the same,
no worth is made from an ambiguous take
of an average person's nuance
in a sonic space,
or in words on the page.