Funny?

It's a funny sort of day:

head's in a weird place 

and can't contain thought.

There were no weapons

involved in the onslaught,

only devastating words.

The father's no replaced

by the resounding, "No!"

of things I can't control.

Rejected.

The goalie's glove hand is 

covering the puck of my

desires.  Goddamn it.

All is lost.

Hopeless.

Trapped...

again.

No getting out this time:

the bars are far too thick,

the locks are far too solid,

the prison far too secure.

Out! Out damn spot!

Quit your staining ways!

Inconsequential consciousness

trafficking decisions made

subconsciously.  A medium.

Nothing more.

Come and work through me.

Please.

"Have we missed our opportunity?"

"Maybe."

It seems to me that maybe, in context,

pretty much always means, "Yes."

We did try tho, didn't we?

Battling against the odds.

We fucking tried, didn't we?

More than most people can say,

I'd reckon.

But it's never easy, is it?

How do we define love?

Why do questions seem

to come easier than answers?

A glitch?

A pain with the idea of solids?

Would we rather question the

state of the universe from an

inconceivable distance--wounded?

I guess I'm at a loss.