I'm drifting. I can sense the tangled <br />rivers that flow in <br />ever increasing confusion <br />all through my tunneled <br />point of view. Not even <br />crossing myself brings me <br />peace of soul. Lift the <br />hairbrush in apathetic hand, <br />brush the hair and <br />ignore the brain underneath <br />the scalp. It is easier <br />to play with toys, to play <br />with images of being real. <br />Cigarette lighter lies on <br />the table. If I flick it how long <br />before I can burn the eyes <br />out of my head? <br />Rolling strands of random <br />moments flicker like <br />light-bulbs in my line <br />of sight. Ignore the <br />need that calls for <br />attention. Play the radio <br />and pretend the songs matter <br />to somebody. <br />Washing dishes does <br />not mean the body is equally <br />clean. I'm eating <br />chocolate chip cookies and <br />imagining that they are <br />filling my empty stomach <br />with hope for tomorrow. <br />Let the doors remain closed! <br />Let the blinds remain drawn! <br />I must not see outside and instead <br />must focus on internal most of <br />the time. <br />Is this selfish? Self-centred? <br />Delusional? <br />I'm drifting. Shaking the <br />sweater clean of all <br />traces of lint. Combing the <br />careless diversity of thought <br />out of the air. When the <br />bugle blows, I can march <br />like any little soldier right up <br />to the flagpole where I will <br />salute the nothing and celebrate <br />the death of everything <br />I grew up to believe. <br />It gets easier as I get older <br />to disarm the emotional tug <br />of other hearts wanting to <br />connect. Pull pants down and lie <br />across the bed waiting for the <br />intellectual spanking deserved. <br />I'm drifting. I can sense the tangled <br />rivers that flow in <br />ever increasing confusion <br />all through my tunneled <br />point of view.<br /><br />Chris G. Vaillancourt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/drifting-like-a-sunbeam-on-fire/
